Page 57 of It's Always Been You
But when I defended my selection, he said he wasn’t sure if he should be watching “things like this” anymore. Something about the Bible saying to focus on what’s pure and good and lovely. And a slasher film didn’t seem all that good and lovely and wholesome.
I rolled my eyes and accused him of being a scaredy-cat.
Crossing his arms, he denied it, which only convinced me more. “You’re scared,” I accused again, laughing. “Admit it.”
“I am not scared,” he drawled impatiently, giving me a reproachful look. Then his eyes gleamed with sudden mischief. “Maybe I just need you to come closer and promise to keep me safe.”
I was so amused that my anxiety evaporated. Discarding my popcorn bowl on the coffee table, I crept across the couch on all fours like a cat, my confidence restored. “You really think I could keep you safe?” I asked as he opened his arms to me, grinning like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
From monsters and serial killers? He had no doubt, noting I’m feral when I want to be. I squealed when he grabbed me by the waist and flung me around like I weighed nothing more than a rag doll. He faced me forward and tucked me neatly into his side so we were cuddled up like we should have been from the very beginning. “But there’s one monster you’ll never be able to protect me from,” he added. I was genuinely confused, but then he booped me on the nose and said, “You.”
Someone in the movie screamed, and we both jumped, then laughed. When our eyes locked again, he swallowed like he was nervous—and then his eyes dropped to my lips. And that, friends, was the moment I knew.
He wanted to kiss me, too.
I may or may not have demanded he kiss me, right then and there. His eyes widened, and I fluttered my lashes as I tacked on a polite-sounding please for good measure. When he didn’t respond, I goaded him by saying, “You know you want to.”
He leaned away from me with wide eyes, looking at me as if I’d grown another eyeball in the center of my forehead. It was mortifying, but I couldn’t backtrack. So I pulled on my big girl britches, girded my loins, and told him to drop the act. He groaned and looked up, like he knew the jig was up and was calling on a higher power for help.
“We can’t,” he sighed, taking me gently by the arms and pushing me back. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” It came out like a plea.
“Because,” he whispered, stroking my arms as he held me at bay, cringing like he was in pain.
Hurt by his rejection, I kept demanding to know why.
He shook his head infinitesimally, arguing with himself about something. “Don’t. Don’t ruin this.”
“Don’t ruin what?” I felt so desperate that I was close to tears.
“What we have. It’s . . . perfect.”
I argued with him, obviously. Told him he knows it’s not. He didn’t argue back, nor did he try to stop me from shaking off his resistance, or from winding my arms around his shoulders. That was all the proof I needed that he wanted me, too, but then he let me swing my leg over his lap and straddle him. “Kiss me,” I demanded again. “Please.”
His hands found my waist. He squeezed my sides like he was fighting the urge to pull me closer, even as he insisted he didn’t want to “complicate things.” When I asked what “things” he was referring to, he sighed. “Our friendship,” he said, emphasizing the word. His hands dropped to my hips, but he was still resisting me, leaning as far away from me as the couch would allow. Then he said he “cared about me.” That he “wanted to give me what I wanted, but—”
“What webothwant,” I corrected impetuously.
A lifeless smirk transformed his face. “What we both want.But—”
“Please,” I whispered, then cupped his face in my hands, savoring the gritty feeling of his stubble against my palms. “You’re all I want.”
Apparently, I had said the magic words—because the next thing I knew, his hands were tunneling deep into my hair, and his mouth was attached to mine. Time seemed to crawl to a standstill as I adjusted to the sensation of his warm, firm lips moving gently with mine. I swear, if there were lightbulbs inside my brain, they were exploding one by one—like lights flickering out on a sinking ship.
I was going down.
He paused abruptly and pulled back, pleading with me to tell him to stop. But his eyes were dark and hooded and obviously hungry for more. He didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t want him to, either.
“Never,” I told him.
The next several minutes sped by like we’d pressed fast forward on a VCR. One second, his lips were safely in their lane, and the next, they were crashing through the centerline into mine, our mouths rolling together as effortlessly as if we’d kissed a million times before. And one second, he was cradling my face like I was the most delicate thing he’d ever held, and the next, he was tugging me closer, his hands exploring and pulling at my clothes . . .
There was no build up to the sudden intensity of the moment—no shyness, no uncertainty, no hesitation. Just pure, unadulterated passion. Almost like he’d been waiting to kiss me for a very, very long time.
He kept pleading with me to tell him to stop, even as his lips explored my jaw, my ear, my neck. He shifted forward on the couch, pushing me down onto the cushions. Suddenly, I was pinned beneath him while he kissed me in a way that felt completely out of my depth.
I don’t know why, but I just . . . clammed up. Big time. I think it was because I was kissing BRANDON of all people. He’d always seemed so far out of reach, an impossibility—a daydream, really. But there we were, making out like it was the most normal thing in the world when it absolutely was not.
