Page 68 of As the Years Pass
“I told you to forget it,” he says, shoving out of my grip. By the time I turn around to follow, his shirt is already off and he’s working on his pants.
“Can you let me finish?” I shout.
“Sure,” he says, but sounds like he has no interest in hearing what I have to say. He gets his pants off, tossing them away, and I stare at his bubbly ass as he walks around to the side of the bed to get under the blankets. He looks like he’s about to get into bed and go to sleep, and that has me panicking.
Why? I don’t know. Because I have the courage to say how I’m feeling? Because we’re talking about something we may never talk about again? Because maybe this isn’t just the alcohol talking, but something I need to get off my chest?
I hurry around the bed and grab Emmet again. “I do care,” I repeat, this time more firmly.
“I’m tired, Adam, and I really don’t want to do this right now.”
He shrugs me off, but I step in front of him again, gripping his face.
“Why aren’t you listening to me?” I plead, searching his eyes. “You’re not listening. You always listen to me, but right now, you’renotlistening.”
His eyes go sad, and it kills me. I don’t want to be the reason he’s sad. Ever.
I don’t like that I made him feel like this, but he really isn’t listening. I’m trying to tell him something.
“You’ve had a lot to drink,” he says.
“So have you.”
“Which is why I just want to go to sleep.”
He still isn’t listening. He’s not hearing me. So I do the only thing I can think of that’ll get his attention.
I kiss him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emmet
I stay very still, a mix of shock and fear coursing through my body.
Adam is kissing me.
That’s the shock.
The fear is from the voice in my head that’s telling me to kiss him back—harder. To push this further and take it to the next level.
Yes, this is what I want, but not like this.
Not with alcohol involved.
Yet, no matter how hard I try, I can’t pull away. We’re like magnets, unable to be pulled apart.
Seconds pass. Minutes. Hours, maybe. I can’t be sure. Hell, it could be a year. I should push him off me. I should tell him to stop.
But instead, I give in.
I deepen the kiss, bringing my hand to the back of his head and pressing him closer to me, parting his lips with my tongue and tasting him for the first time in years.
He groans into my mouth, and I press my body harder against his, needing to somehow be closer than we already are. There is zero space between us, but I need it to be less than that.
I want to bury myself in his soul, stay with him forever.
His hands come to my hips, digging his fingers into my bare skin, searing me, marking me with phantom prints that’ll burn like invisible brands for years to come.
