Page 154 of Seven Lost Summers
He moves closer, until he’s standing beside me. I watch his eyes drop to the photo in my hands, the faint crease appearing between his brows. The grief in him is obvious, written in the way his mouth tightens for a moment.
“That was the day Bianca tried to teach Nate how to skateboard,” he says, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t even last thirty seconds before he ate shit.”
He looks back up at me, the smirk still there, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze dips to my mouth, lingering there for a fraction too long before it flashes back up to meet mine.
“I’m sorry,” I say, setting the photo down gently, as if it might break.
“What for?”
“For bringing up the past. I know it hurts.”
Silence stretches between us. When I glance up, he’s already watching me.
“You never have to apologize for remembering her,” he says quietly. “Or for remembering us.”
He steps in, close enough that the faint heat from his body brushes against my skin.
My grip tightens around the edge of the dresser because I don’t know what to do with the weight of his stare. It pins me in place.
His hand lifts, his gaze never wavering. Fingers slide into my hair, brushing it back from my face. The touch lingers, enough to feel intentional, enough to make my pulse skip.
The pads of his fingers graze the curve of my jaw. It’s so faint it’s almost not there, yet the spark it sets off is immediate.
“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that it curls right into my chest, “back at those parties… the only reason I went was to talk to you.”
For a second, I blink, the words hitting harder than I’m ready for. “What?”
He leans back half a step, his hand falling away, rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes dart aside, like maybe he already regrets letting it slip. “I didn’t give a shit about Nate disappearing to get his dick sucked, leaving me stuck with those idiots running their mouths. I just… I went so I could sit and talk to you.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I don’t know how to say it—that the only reason I ever went was to sit and talk to him too. If he hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have walked in. No fucking way I’d step into a party to deal with guys trying to corner me, trying to get into my pants, running their mouths about how they’d fucked Quinn Thomas. None of them knew back then that I was still a virgin, and I wasn’t about to give that to some cockhead who only wanted pussy and not the person attached to it.
When I don’t answer, he turns away and walks back to the bed, sitting down like he didn’t drop something I’ve been dying to hear for years. The fact that he shuts me out that easily makes my heart break.
I follow him. “Why the hell do you do that?”
His gaze stays on some point past me. “Do what?”
“This.” I motion between us. “Shut down right after you tell me something you’ve never said before.”
Silence.
His eyes finally meet mine. The expression makes it impossible to tell whether he’s about to kiss me or walk away.
“Theo,” I say, stepping closer. “Talk to me.”
I reach out, my fingers wrapping around his forearm. The muscle is solid and warm, heat rolling off him in steady waves. The moment my skin meets his, something in him shifts. His breath hitches, eyes closing for a beat like he’s holding himself back.
When they open again, he’s already closing the distance.
His hand lifts slow, giving me every chance to stop him. Fingers skim my cheek, the rough pads grazing skin that suddenly burns with sensitivity, before his palm curves around the side of my face. A breath later, his mouth crashes onto mine.
It starts soft, but fuck, the filth is in the way he moves—his lips coaxing mine open, tongue sliding in like he’s here to claim me. He tastes me slowly, as if he wants every inch of me mapped on his tongue before he’s done. It’s a kiss that lands like a warning, the kind a man gives when he plans to fuck you until no one else can touch you without finding his fingerprints.
My hands find his chest before I even register moving. Hard muscle under my palms, his heartbeat pounding fast enough to match mine. My thighs press together under the pull of it, heat sparking low and deep. My nipples tighten under the thin fabric of my shirt, aching, while every slow grind of his mouth over mine turns the air between us molten.
Every pass of his tongue says I want to fuck you, but every careful tilt of his mouth says I’m not letting you go.
When he finally pulls back, his breath drags hot over my lips, his forehead resting close enough that I can feel the faint tremor in him.
