“You’re done playing tonight. These are barely sticking.” He presses again on the adhesive striping the length of my palm. I fight the urge to close my fingers around his thumb.
“And I was just starting to get the hang of it. There go my dreams of turning pro.”
He laughs.
I love his laugh.
“Thank you for this. Being up there, it was …” He looks at me, raises my bandaged hand, and presses it to his mouth.
My eyes grow wide and my lips part to ask a question—any question. I almost do. But then that’s how this night will end: with conversation. The choice is mine; the move is mine.
I make it. One deep breath and all questions are erased by the touch of my lips as I lean forward to press them against his.
37
Jonah
2:26 A.M.
HALF PAST—HOLY CRAP!
I’d be lying if I said I had no expectations. I’ve imagined kissing her a hundred times tonight. In a hundred different places and positions. But in the instant she kisses me, I’m not thinking about anything but her. The way her eyes widened with admiration and the shape of her lips when she commented about saving Sophia’s life. The feel of the skin on her inner wrist and the size of her hand in mine. The thoughtfulness of bringing me here and her willingness to go back up that hill—despite her bandages and her remarkable inability to throw or catch.
And I want to teach her. Today, tomorrow, the next day. I want to teach her to catch a ball. I want to teach her how to punch guys like Digg, walk Never, and deal with stress in ways that don’t end with bandages.
But right now, mostly I want to learn what she tastes like.
Press her back against the hood. Slide my hands up the backs of her legs. White cotton underwear. More!
Thoughts pulse against my brain as my mouth explores hers. But not her, not Brighton Waterford. I won’t. But, God, if she makes that little noise in the back of her throat again … And her legs. Does she know she’s let them slide down on either side of mine?
One foot wraps around the back of my leg and draws me closer; she knows.
My body wants to rush the moment, to find out what’s next, but I won’t let it. With Carly, kissing was like stretching before a game. It was important, but it wasn’t our final destination. With Brighton … well, I don’t want to be thinking about Carly.
Her lips against my lips. My world shrinks to the sensation of our mouths coming together and apart. The glide of her tongue across mine, the tug and give of her mouth. I feel drugged, hypnotized. Greedy. My legs halve the inches between us, and my mouth seeks more access.
Bright shifts away and I freeze. Is this the part where she changes her mind? Realizes she could and should do much better?
She removes her arms from my neck, and I hold my breath. She slides down from the hood of my car so she’s pressed between the bumper and my body. My hands are on her shoulders, shivering with the desire to be in her hair. I need to know if she wants them off her and in my pockets.
Step backward, my mind orders my reluctant legs. I do, with movements awkward and uncoordinated and eyes that won’t look higher than her flip-flopped, bandaged feet.
They step forward. Her hands circle around to press against my back. She waits for me to look at her—her eyes feverish and uncertain—then her lips brush feather-light across mine. My mouth opens in a groan. She tilts her head. Her mouth and my mouth are reunited. And I’m learning her as she learns me.
Not until she pulls back and buries her face in my shirt do I remember she’s fragile; I was going to treat her gently. But maybe she isn’t after all. Maybe she’s stronger than me.
I rub her back with one hand and lower my face to where my fingers are tangled in her hair. She smells like rain and something clean and innocent—like lemons and daisies. I know I should say something, but I’m too calm, too excited, too baffled to form any thoughts but Hold still. Stay.
I feel her mouth move against my shirt more than I hear her speak.
“What?” I smooth my hand through her tangles, reaching down to tip her chin up.
Her face is flushed, her lips swollen, and her eyes flicker over me, around the air. She sighs. I watch her hand curl in, nails hitting Band-Aids. She frowns and presses her palm flat against her leg. I fight the urge to crush her back against me and smother her words about this in my shirt; against my lips. Or buckle her in the passenger seat and drive away, leaving all consequences in the parking lot.
Her unbandaged hand reaches up to barely, barely touch my face. I lean my cheek into her palm, shutting my eyes for an instant to savor the sensation, then open them to watch her and worry about her silence.
One half of Brighton’s mouth quirks with mischief. “It’s only fair to warn me: Are you noisy and smelly too?”
38
Brighton
2:31 A.M.
10 HOURS, 29 MINUTES LEFT
I’d really said: That was nice.