by Sara Ney
“No.” I’ve never been soberer in my entire life. “I’m not drunk…not on alcohol.”
Rising on my toes, I need only another inch to reach his mouth. Breasts pressing into his chest, my lips graze his, the barest trace. Rhett’s body freezes, rooted to the porch, the breath leaving his body so fast I feel his heart beat in time to mine.
I kiss him once, letting my pucker linger on the indentation at the corner of his mouth. Kiss him again, basking in his full bottom lip. The bow in the top. Silky. Soft.
My hands find a straight path up his firm pecs, over his stiff nipples. Slowly discover their way to his jaw. Land on his biceps and rest there, resisting the urge to squeeze the muscles under my fingertips.
Rhett lowers his forehead to mine with a shaky countenance, but it’s not what I want. Does nothing to satisfy my newly insatiable curiosity, this longing I’ve felt since first meeting him face to face.
I want him to kiss me.
I need him to kiss me.
I need to know if this connection building between us is real.
Painfully slowly, his lips part the barest of a fraction—barely—meeting the next brush of my mouth. He receives it tentatively, unsure.
Then another and another, the soft whisper of our kisses in the dark.
Our lips.
When I raise my lids, I discover his are closed, long lashes brushing his high cheekbones. Nostrils flared, controlled breaths in and out. Nowhere near satisfied, my eyes scan his scar-marred face before sweeping my mouth once more across his.
I want to sob when his mouth finally opens, tongue touching mine, low groan escaping his chest; it’s long and loud and primal. Almost a whimper. Painful.
He’s shaking.
My hands fall limply to my sides, weightless, body and nerves losing all center of gravity, knees wobbling when his mouth hovers over mine and his delicious tongue agrees to get acquainted. Our heads slant for a better angle.
God, I want to run my fingers through his shaggy hair. Kiss his face, his eyebrows, his broken nose.
He leans into me, too, my breasts swollen and his chest rubbing, pecs so mouthwateringly hard I can feel his nipples through my shirt. Through my bra.
Rhett kisses me like he means it, hard but gentle. Lazy but controlled. Firm and soft and then, “Tu sens merveilleuse.”
His raspy French murmur sends a tingle shooting straight down my spine, down to my toes. Whatever the words are he’s whispering, they send a ripple of desire through my core, getting me—oh God—so hot.
I want to curl up inside those words. Get naked in them.
Everything with Rhett and me started off so wrong in the worst ways, and now being with him just…
It’s right.
I like him.
Really like him.
I find the strength in my arms to raise my hands. Slide them heatedly up his abs. Sternum. Collarbone. Poise to cup the back of his neck and pull him in.
“Laurel…” he whispers, forehead falling back down onto mine. “Laurel.”
“Yes?”
“You…” He swallows. “Should go inside.”
“I should?”
He nods. “I should go.”
“You should?” But why?
Face flaming hot from embarrassment, I forget about the biting cold when I step back feebly, butt hitting the door. Turn to unlock it, fumbling with the key, body trembling. Tears tingling the bridge of my nose in between my eyes.
I refuse to turn around and look at him, so I tell the door, “Good night.”
I sense Rhett hesitating behind me. “Good night.”
It’s not until I’m inside, body slack in the entry hall, catching my breath, do I realize: not once did Rhett’s hands leave his pockets.
Rhett
I can’t go into my house.
So I sit in my Jeep, parked in front of it with the engine still running, hands still gripping the steering wheel.
What the fuck was that all about?
What the fuck was that?
What was that?
Someone needs to spell it out because I’m confused as fuck.
Laurel kissed me.
I replay it over and over in my head, head tipped back, hitting the headrest. Stare unblinking at the ceiling of my Jeep, at the wide expanse of tan fabric, breathing hard, fighting for control over my accelerated heart rate.
Take my pulse: 140.
Jesus.
Are my roommates right? Does she like me?
There’s no freaking way. Not possible.
With a trembling hand, I skim the front of my gray pants, across the length of my hard cock, pressing down but not stroking. I saw her blatantly checking me out on the porch but dismissed it as curiosity. I’m not completely clueless; I know I have a great body. I train hard for it, day after grueling day.
It’s my face that isn’t winning any beauty contests.
Never would I have thought a girl like that would look twice in my direction.
Now? I’m not so sure.
Rhett
I haven’t been able to think of anything but that kiss. Can’t step outside without shooting furtive glances at the small white house sitting at the end of my block, watching for her to come out.
Watching for any sign of her, really.
That kiss happened three days ago and I haven’t seen or heard from her since—not that I expected to. It’s not like we’re dating; it’s not like she’s obligated to.
Still…
One part of me is really fucking disappointed I haven’t heard from her, while the other part of me wonders if she’s been waiting for me to message her.
Shit.
I sit, deliberating, unable to concentrate on the papers stacked in front of me. My friends would have no problem figuring this shit out; they’d message her without hesitating, probably would have the minute they walked off her porch the other night.
I stare at the essays blankly, composing a text to Laurel in my mind before typing one out, hoping like hell she welcomes the random message.
Me: Hey there.
Laurel: Hey stranger! I was wondering where you’d gone.
Dammit, I was right—she’s been waiting for me to message her first. Sometimes I’m such an asshole.
Me: Correcting papers and studying at the library.
Laurel: Which one?
Me: Public. Over off Broadway
Laurel: You’re not hiding are you?
Me: LOL, no.
Maybe.
Laurel: How would you feel about some company?
My chest expands, constricts, heart racing.
Hell yeah I want her company—I fucking miss her beautiful face. Her bright red hair and flirtatious smiles. The way she touches my arm with the tips of her fingers.
Me: You should probably get your ass over here.
Laurel: Be careful—it sounds suspiciously like you’re flirting…
Me: I’m doing my best.
Laurel: That was a good start—I’ll be there in twenty. Walking.
Me: Want me to come get you?
Laurel: No worries, I’ll manage ;)
Shit. If she’s walking, that means she’s going to need a ride home, and we know how that ended last time—with me pussing out on her front porch.
I clear room on the table, stack the sparse number of school supplies I have on top of a notebook, and straighten the chairs. Reach up and run both hands through my hair, finger-combing that shit. I glance down, giving my plaid flannel a cursory onceover for stains.
Roll the sleeves to my elbows.
Stand to smooth down the front of my jeans, realizing too late I’m primping like a fucking girl.
For a girl.
I sit my ass back down, stare at the entrance. Check the time stamp of Laurel’s text and glance at the clock.
It’s been eight minutes.
Eleven.
Fifteen.
At nineteen minutes, I sit up straight when the doors at the entrance b
reeze open, followed by a cool gust of wind I feel from my spot in the corner.
Laurel pauses in the doorway, backpack draped over one shoulder, scanning the perimeter, seeking me out.
I use the time to check her out.
Skinny jeans. Brown half boots. Green plaid shirt, navy vest. Flaming red hair down in loose waves—wavy enough that even I know it didn’t happen naturally.
She spots me. Begins weaving her way in my direction, eyes focused on my table.
On me.
Beams down at me when she reaches the table.
“Hey.”
Bites her pink bottom lip. “Hi.”
Okay, what now?
“We match,” I blurt out dumbly—we’re both wearing plaid.
The corners of her eyes crinkle, delighted. “We do.”
“I saved you a seat.” I laugh, and Laurel’s eyes scan the nearly empty library.
“Not exactly a hub of activity, is it?”
“Nope. That’s what I like about it.”
“I don’t blame you. This is nice.” With her backpack rested on the chair, she unzips it, pulling out her laptop. Notebook. Pen. “Can you believe I’ve never been here?”
“Did you find the place okay?”
“Yeah. That’s what GPS is for.” She winks flirtatiously, removing her vest and hanging it on the back of her chair.
“You used your GPS to get here?”
“Haven’t you ever used the walking guide?”
“Uh, no?”
“Oh man, my friends and I do it all the time. It’s the only way we can get anywhere around here.” Laurel hesitates. Brushes an errant strand behind her ear, gathering her hair and pulling it over her right shoulder in a red waterfall.
So fucking pretty.
She sits, clearing her throat. “What are you working on? Grading papers?”
My head shakes. “I was, but now I’m editing my paper for European Union and Foreign Politics.”
“Wow. That sounds… It sounds…”
“Borin’ as fuck?”
“That isn’t what I was going to say—at all.” She laughs, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand to stifle the sound. “Are you ever able to do homework on your bus rides?”
“I could, if my teammates would leave me in peace.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well.” I set down my pen. “When we came home this past weekend, they spent half the trip riding my ass, handing out dating tips and shit.”
Her brows furrow, pinched attractively at the bridge of her adorable nose. “Dating tips? Like what?”
“The shittiest, worst kind of advice. Probably thinkin’ I’d actually take it and look like a dumb fuck in front of you.” Her eyes widen. “Sorry, pardon my French.”
She smacks my arm at my pun. “Cute.”
I lean in. “Get this: they told me when I’m around a girl, I should insult my friends to be funny.”
“Uh…”
“How would you feel if you were on a date and the guy spent the entire time textin’ other people?”
“I’d hate it.” Her head tilts. “Did they tell you to do that?”
“Yeah—so my date would think I was important.”
“That’s…wow. I don’t even know what to say. That is really shitty advice.”
“I know.”
“They didn’t…” Her voice trails off. “Um, they didn’t tell you how to ask a girl on a date, did they?”
“No.” I snort. “Thank God.”
“Why? You don’t think you need it?”
When I finally take the time to study her reaction, she’s watching me attentively, blue eyes shining, mouth set in a determined line. Waiting.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You know,” she says slowly. “If you want to practice…you could always pretend to ask me out.”
Her shoulders give a casual shrug, nonchalant, but the high color of her flushed cheeks and blazing, sparking eyes tell another story.
“I wouldn’t know what to say.” Which is true, I wouldn’t—not to her, or any other female, especially when I’m being put on the spot.
“Try it,” she urges with a gentle smile. “I won’t bite.”
“Uh…” I look to the ceiling for answers. At the bookshelves. Across the library at the circulation desk.
Laurel emits an amused chuckle. “Wow. Maybe you do need help.” Pause. “Go on, ask.”
“You just want me to pretend?”
There is a long pause. “Sure. Pretend ask me.”
“Pretend.”
Curt nod. “Mmmhmmm.”
I lean back in my chair to study her, the slight downward tilt of her pink mouth. The unflinching eyes that are a tad too wide. The blush creeping up her lovely neck to her smooth cheeks.
“You wanna go out with me sometime?”
“There, was that so hard?” she whispers.
“I guess not.”
Laurel’s lips part, smile feebly. “Easy.”
“So then what happens?”
She sits up straighter in her chair. Flips her hair. “Well, then I’d lean in like this.” She leans in, arms crossed on the table. Whispers, “I’d be breathless and my heart would be pounding, and I’d say something like, ‘I would love that.’”
Jesus.
A few silent moments pass, the only sound the ticking clock on the wall. Our breathing. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
The shuffling of papers from the front desk.
“Rhett?” Her voice is just loud enough that I can hear it, barely a sigh.
“Laurel,” I say teasingly.
“Why haven’t you asked me out?”
More tension-filled silence stretches between us, the question weighing down the air.
She can’t even look at me when she says it.
My head gives a shake. “It’s just—that cannot be what you meant.”
“Why not?”
I shift in my seat uncomfortably, not sure what to say. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to start spouting off the million ways she’s out of my league. How she’s gorgeous and I’m not. How as a set, we don’t match. How I’d have to be a fucking dumbass to ask a girl like her out on a date—a delusional fucking dumbass.
I look at her from across the table. Rosy cheeks, inky lashes. Clear skin and perfect nose. Creamy complexion. Gleaming satin hair. Great boobs and slim waist.
Jesus, she’s…
She’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.
And for whatever fucking reason, she seems to think I’m something. Wants to spend time with me. Get to know me.
It’s…
Unsettling.
Unreal.
“You’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because. Because our whole friendship began as a joke, a stupid fucking prank my idiot roommate and her cousin railroaded us into. Laurel wouldn’t have texted me. Would never have flirted, sexted. Would never have come up to me during that party otherwise.
Shit, I cannot stop warring with myself on this. Cannot wrap my brain around it.
If I’m so horrible, then why did she kiss me on my porch?
She kissed me.
That shit just doesn’t happen to guys like me. Ever. I know it, and so does everyone else. It’s a universal law, and who am I to throw off the gravitational pull?
I’m not blind, and I’m certainly not dumb.
I raise my eyes. “You really want to know why haven’t I asked you out?”
Laurel looks down at the table top, avoiding my eyes, feigning sudden interest in her English paper, in her pen cap, ticking it open and closed. Even with her head bent, I can see her cheeks are flushed, clearly mystified.
“Why haven’t I asked you out?” God, what the hell is wrong with me? Why do I keep fucking repeating myself? I’m worse than a goddamn parrot.
“Please just stop saying that,” she beseeches, turning a darker, unflattering shade of pink.
> “I just don’t know…what’s…going on?” Seriously, why am I being such a spaz? It’s like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe, some fucked-up episode of The Twilight Zone.
I watch her lips twitch. Clearly flustered by my lackluster reply, Laurel avoids eye contact. “Never mind, Rhett. Just let it go.”
“Laurel—”
“Please stop talking about it. Forget I said anything.”
I clamp my lips together. Then, “I didn’t realize you wanted me to ask you out.”
“Well you do now.” She looks up at me, confused. Her pretty brows bend. “I’ve been flirting and messaging you for weeks. I brought you cookies. I called you to pick me up from a bar in the middle of the night. Kissed you on my porch.”
She’s breathing harder now, getting upset. Narrows her blue eyes at me. “What did you think I was doing all this time?”
“I don’t fucking know, Laurel. Friendzonin’ me?” How stupid do I sound? I throw my hands up. “I thought we were studyin’. What did you think we were doin’?”
“But I kissed you.”
True. But, untrusting, I ask, “Was it because of some dare?”
“How can you ask me that? What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“Laurel…” My tone holds a warning.
“I thought you were waiting to ask me out until the time was right,” she blurts out, cheeks red as her hair. “I can’t believe I said that. I don’t ask guys out—I’ve never asked a guy out in my life, and I’m not starting with you.”
“I’m not tryin’ to upset you, I’m just so damn confused.”
“Confused? Awesome.” The laugh that comes out of her throat is almost maniacal. Now she’s throwing her hands in the air, defeated. “That is just awesome. Can we forget this whole humiliating conversation took place?”
Uh, not likely. Not ever.
This shit is going to be burned into my brain forever.
“I don’t think so.” My head shakes, a reminder that I should probably get a haircut before I can’t see. It’s already too long for Iowa’s wrestling uniform code. “Can we talk about it?”
Jesus Christ, what am I saying?