But if not now, when? How is it wrong to be honest with what I want right from the beginning, especially if I’m worried he wants something else entirely?
A donut is delicious, a saccharine sin you devour in a hurry, but it’s nothing special. You can get one cheap and fast at a gas station if you’re craving it, but that’s not me, and if that’s what he wants then I need to tell him now. Let him know he should be shopping at another bakery.
I look up at him, meeting his eyes with my heart in my throat, and I know then how much I really do like him, because I’m nervous over what’s about to happen.
“I want tiramisu,” I tell him certainly, swallowing my hesitance. “Sweet and complicated. Caffeinated. Bad for you but so fucking good it’s worth it. Every last bite.”
His eyes search mine, his face uncommonly austere. “I’ve never had tiramisu.”
“It’s not for everyone. I wouldn’t judge you if you didn’t want it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he counters, turning toward me.
“It doesn’t exactly fit in with your lifestyle. Tiramisu means taking it slow.”
Colt nods languidly. “I can go slow.”
I smirk at him. “Really, Sugar Rush? Are you sure?”
His hand touches my hip, making me jump and melt instantaneously. He pulls me toward him until he’s practically leaning over me, his large body eclipsing me, narrowing my view to the stunning stars of his eyes and his lips curved low like the moon; crescent and cunning.
“Am I sure I can take you slowly?” he asks, his voice vibrating in my blood. In my everything. “Yeah. I can do that. I can do that for as long as you want me to.”
“I think you’re misunderstanding me on purpose,” I reply breathlessly, my head swimming. My synapses sparking. Fizzling. His arms are going around my waist. His hips pressing against mine. I have a limited amount of brain power left before I get stupid. Before this complex confection is reduced to a cruller in his hands.
“I understand you just fine.” He lowers his head. “You want to go slow.”
I raise my arms, my hands skimming over the roll of his shoulders. “Yes.”
He touches the tip of his nose to mine. “You want something real.”
“Yes.”
His lower lip brushes feather light against my upper, his breath hot against my skin.
My body clenches tightly in riposte.
“You want me,” he whispers sensuously.
I can barely breathe as I sigh, “Yes.”
The hot feel of his mouth closing on mine is everything I’ve been hungry for, starving for, for the last year.
I’ve kissed other men. I’ve been in their arms as they thrust their tongue inside my mouth and taken what they wanted from me, but never before did it feel like I was being fed. Satiated. That’s what it is to kiss Colt. To be kissed by him, devoured by him. I’m made more. I’m magnified. I’m melting and pooling, expanding into something I forgot how to be in the hours spent giving everything I had to the store and Michael and my family, pretending we’re fine, pretending we’re solid when what we really are is a thin shadow of what we used to be. I’m a ghost, a whisper, but in Colt’s arms I’m alive. I’m a cry in the darkness so loud it makes your ears ring, and oh god, does it feel good.
My hands tangle together at the back of his head in his hair, pulling him closer as I kiss him harder. His hand is on my ass, pulling me forward and up until I’m on my toes, the weakness in my legs giving way to the strength in his arms.
His alarm buzzes in his pocket, warning him of the hour.
The smell of burning sugar fills the room, warning me the donuts are destroyed.
Life is calling, telling us it’s time to say goodbye. It’s time to put an end to this night. To this kiss.
But not yet.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
COLT
November 13th
Charlie Windt Stadium
Los Angeles, CA
“You look like shit,” Tyus says sharply. “You sick?”
I shake my head, sweat pouring off my forehead into my eyes. I feel like I’m underwater. Everything sounds muffled, my vision is blurred. My reflexes are shot. I’m running through pudding out here. Hibbert almost outpaced me on that last play, and that fat fuck can’t outrun his own ass.
“I’m tired,” I croak. “That’s all.”
“You need a Snickers?” he asks sarcastically.
I chuckle, leaning with my hands on my thighs to spit into the turf. “Fuck no.”
“Why are you so tired?” He looks downfield to where the cheerleading squad is gathered under the goal post. “You didn’t see Nikki again, did you?”
“No, I’m not stupid.”
Tyus snickers, but he’s a good enough friend not to point out the other times I’ve said that exact same thing. “So if you didn’t stay up all night with her, why are you so tired?”
“I hung out with the girl from the party,” I tell him. “Lilly.”
“You ‘just hung out’ with her?” he asks skeptically.