Page 119 of Moonshine Kiss
We’d worked our way through several of Bowie’s winter-themed fantasies that he’d banked. The baggy sweater and nothing else under it had been quite enjoyable. So had the undressing Deputy Tucker scenario.
“Tell me,” he demanded, steering my car toward home with one hand while devouring his strawberry shortcake bar.
“I used to imagine sneaking out of Scarlett’s room and into yours when I slept over.”
“I shared a room with Jameson,” Bowie said, cracking a smile.
“That’s why we’d have to berealquiet.”
He shot me a look and made a right-hand turn.
“Where are we going?” I laughed as he turned us away from home.
“My dad’s house.”
“Are you serious?” I was equal parts horrified and delighted.
“It’s a little different now with the renovations and all. But my old room still has two twin beds.”
“It doesn’t! We can’t.”
“Is the pretty deputy scared?” Bowie quipped.
“I’m an adult with a very nice queen-sized bed at home,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but imagine what would have happened if seventeen-year-old you had snuck into twenty-one-year-old me’s bed.”
“You would have been all chivalrous and kicked me out,” I guessed. Which is exactly why I’d never done it. I’d made it as far as the hallway outside his door. Twice. But I’d never been brave enough to attempt it.
We were three minutes away from the Bodine homestead. And in those three minutes, I relived just about every teenage fantasy I’d ever had sleeping over at Scarlett’s. I’d come out of the shower in a towel and Bowie would drag me into his room. Or he’d lead me into the woods during a bonfire and have his way with me against a tree. Or we’d run into each other in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and he’d slide me up on the counter and kiss me.
Or I’d sneak into his room and he’d hold the sheet up, welcoming me into his bed.
He bumped down the driveway to the bungalow with its wooded acre and its tidy white trim. They’d re-sided it in a dark green and re-stained the porch a rich, dark honey. It looked crisp, clean, inviting.
And not at all like the home I’d spent many a summer nights in.
Bowie brought my car to a stop. “Come on.”
We unlocked the door and slipped inside. It smelled like fresh paint and carpet. They were still debating on selling it outright or renting it. There were a lot of memories tied up in these walls. Good and bad.
The paint was different, the kitchen updated, but the bones were the same. I remembered watching movies in that skinny living room and that the third step from the bottom squeaked. Important knowledge for when we snuck out of the house in our teenage years.
He took my hand and led me up the stairs. Bowie paused in the hallway and pressed me up against the wall outside the bathroom. My heart thumped its approval.So many memories. So many wants and needs.
“Sorry, sneaking in another little fantasy,” he said, leaning into me.
“Tell me,” I whispered.
“You’d be coming out of the bathroom real late. No one else is awake,” he said, slipping his hands into my coat and settling them under my breasts. “You’d make the first move.”
“Like this?” I asked, shifting our positions so it was Bowie against the wall and I was the one pinning him there.
“God, yes,” he breathed into my mouth.
“Would I kiss you?” I asked, brushing my lips against his lightly.
Bowie nodded, and I obliged, closing my fingers in his shirt and holding him there. “I’d make it known that I wanted your hands on me.”
