It isn’t our first kiss, but maybe there’s some rule about fresh starts and clean slates that applies to people you haven’t kissed in a decade.
My head goes back because he’s just that tall. His palm is firm on my back, holding me there, and I think of how he dipped me in the club, how I trusted him then and how I have to trust him now.
Trust that he won’t drop me.
One hand unwinds itself from behind me, his palm tracing up my arm, curving over my shoulder before it displaces my hair to get at my jaw. And wow. Nothing has ever felt as good as the brush of his fingers against that sensitive skin along the side of my neck.
His lips are still on mine, resting there, not kissing but not not-kissing. Like a placeholder. A promise.
He draws his thumb against the curve beneath my chin and I sigh.
It changes everything.
We collide into each other, as if we were at opposite ends of the room, racing into each other’s arms, instead of already wrapped up like a pair of horny octopuses. Octopi?
That hand on my cheek moves my head into position, tilting it into Gabe’s palm so our lips can meet like puzzle pieces. My tongue is in his mouth as my hands reach under his shirt, and none of it is enough.
This isn’t what happened ten years ago. There’s no fumbling now. No hesitation. We’re not going to stop. We’re going to go all the way.
Still cupping my head, Gabe’s other hand careens down my back, right into my jeans, bypassing everything underneath and gripping my ass with a possessiveness that’s unbearably sexy. He tugs upward and I climb him, wrapping my legs around his waist.
We’re older now, and it’s clear that both of us know exactly what we want and there’s something so very hot about that. About that knowledge. That history. That experience.
He’s solid and strong and I can feel his muscles tense and adjust to my weight as he carries me across the living room and into his bedroom. It feels almost like a movie until he trips and all but throws me onto the bed, falling in after. I smack my head on his collarbone, and he grunts as he holds himself back on shaking arms, then laughs as I pull him down against me.
We kiss, our hands moving up and down, finding fabric and occasionally skin, moving, moving, moving, like we’re trying to start a fire. My legs are trembling.
Gabe is having difficulty with my shirt.
“I just…these fucking…goddamn buttons,” he mutters, his fingers fumbling, the backs of his hands haphazardly brushing against my breasts, making me wiggle, which in turn makes it even more difficult to get the shirt undone. “Can I just…please…can I…?”
I don’t exactly know what he’s asking but I don’t exactly care.
“Okay, yeah. Yeah.”
He gives me a grin, equal parts wicked and boyish, and before I really realize what’s happening, he grips the sides of my shirt and pulls. Buttons scatter, the fabric rips. And my shirt is gone.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he says.
I’m breathless with how much I liked it. Gabe stares down at me like I’ve just given him everything he’s ever wanted.
“They’re just breasts,” I say for literally no reason at all.
He looks up, and shakes his head, long and slow, his hair falling across his forehead.
“There’s nothing just about you,” he says.
If I hadn’t already been literally swooning beneath him, that would have done it. My entire body feels itchy and crackling and desperate. I’m ready for more. I’m so ready.
We remove clothes. My jeans. Gabe’s shirt. My shirt.
It’s like high school, but better—that sweet, hot anticipation of kissing, kissing like you’re the first people in the world to discover it, like there’s no possible way other people are doing it like this, because if they were how in the hell would anyone ever get anything done.
I let my hands wander. I’d gotten a chance with his chest ten years ago on his couch in Laurel Canyon, back when he was fighting fit—on his Hollywood Bond diet, lean but muscular, his torso as waxed as my kitchen floor.
The muscles are still there, but he’s nowhere near as chiseled as he was. The six-pack isn’t as prominent and he even has the tiniest of love handles on his sides. And his chest. His chest is covered with a sprinkling of hair, his shoulders unreasonably broad.
I love all of it.
I love how his chest hair tickles my palms, the same way his beard is rough and soft as he rubs it against my chin. I love feeling the way time has passed through his body, the way we’ve both changed. This Gabe feels more real to me than the one I basically dry-humped on his couch ten years ago.
And this is the Gabe I want.
“Take off your pants,” I murmur as his hands skate along my sides, tracing my hips.
Laughter sputters out of me as Gabe rears back, attacking the buttons on his well-worn jeans as if they were on fire. He flings them across the room and comes back down against me, kissing the remaining humor from my lips.
That need—his need—is enough to make me shake.
Because this is Gabe. Not just Gabe Parker the Movie Star, though it must be acknowledged, but Gabe. I’m feeling too many things at once, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed, stepping outside my body and looking down on our forms entangled on the bed and wondering, How the fuck did I end up here?
I know that if we do this, I’ll never get over him.
He stops, pulling back to look at me, his eyes searching my face.
I’m in love with him.
But I can’t say it. I can’t.
Instead, I take his face in my hands and kiss him. Sweetly and then less sweetly. He’s a quick study and not a fool, so it doesn’t take long to ratchet both of us back up to that burning, taut point of desire we’d been climbing toward.
Dragging my hands down the length of his spine, I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs and begin to push them down. He shifts to help me, leaning back enough that he can do the same for me, removing my bra and my underwear.
Then he’s on me again, kissing me hard.
I think of the dumb joke from all those years ago. What’s my perfect weight? Me with Gabe Parker on top of me.