by Dani Wyatt
Her skin is warm, smooth like someone spun together clouds and sunshine. I don’t want to look at her face because I don’t want to see that she wants me to let go—if she wants me to let go.
“It’s not a date.” I hear the near painful words fall from her lips, and those fissures in my heart split open a little farther. But, she doesn’t pull her hand from mine.
“No, it’s not,” I answer back because she’s right.
A date is something you do when you are unsure of someone—the time spent trying to discover if they may be the one, so to speak, to decide if you want a second date, a third . . . or something more.
This is not a date because I already know what I want. I want it all.
My foot slips under the table until I meet hers, only then can I raise my eyes. Now I need to know. I need to see what she’s thinking, what she's feeling.
I peg her with my eyes and, for a second, I can see her start to run. Her cheeks turn pink, her tongue glances her lower lip, and I feel her panic rising. Instead of letting go, I pull her hand toward me and lean closer.
“Tell me something about you no one else knows.”
She lets out a laugh, but it’s not because she thinks my question is funny.
“Why? Why would I tell you that? I hardly know you. I’m not even sure I like you.” Her words and the tone of her voice are in direct opposition to one another.
Like I said, I know the truth when I hear it. The tone of her voice is the truth, and she does “like” me.
“Just take a chance. I mean, look at this face.” I tip my head to the side. “Who wouldn’t trust this face?” She picks up on my self-deprecating humor, and I hope it is enough to win another speck of her heart.
I love the way she angles her head and squints her eyes and crinkles her nose all at the same time. It’s my kryptonite. I also notice that she has no problem looking me straight in the face right now.
Most people look but only for the politically correct three seconds. Then they look away, afraid I might think they’re staring. The ironic thing is, most of the time I forget my face has anything unusual about it. I mean, every face is different. Mine just has a bit more story to tell.
“You first. Tell me something about you that no one else knows.” She tosses the ball back into my court.
I don’t miss a beat.
“I’ve never wanted to kiss someone as much as I want to kiss you right now.”
She tries to pull her hand from mine, but I keep it firm in my fingers. I see her lips open as if she’s not sure what to say.
“Your turn.” I smile and suck some air through my teeth because the way she’s got her eyes stuck on mine is making me the happiest guy in this entire restaurant, if not Cleveland.
“No fair.” She breaks into a little crooked smile and bites the inside of her lip, sending a bolt of lightening down where I’m already having a difficult time containing the wayward shaft inside my jeans.
“What? What’s not fair?” I blink because I’m confused.
“You stole mine.”
I knock over my wine glass and practically the entire table as I launch up and over the space between us and taste the sweet, warm, wonder of her pink lips. My hands hold her cheeks, and my world turns inside out. My tongue parts her lips, tasting a perfect kiss from the angel I thought I’d never find.
As my mouth covers hers, I can’t silence the ever-present doubts, the angry truth thumping inside me as I trace my name on her lips with my tongue.
Tell her to steer clear of you. This won’t end well. Not with you. Not for her.
I stomp the fucking voice away because there is nothing more important right now than the way she tastes. The sounds she makes.
I quickly negotiate a deal with the devil, knowing he will come to collect and that it’s a debt I’ll gladly pay for just one more moment like this.
Promise
That kiss did something to me.
I can’t be completely sure, but I feel like I’m melting. Like something incredibly heavy is dripping off of me, and I feel so light. I’ve become liquid.
He’s looking at me, our lips still practically touching, but he’s staring, unflinching into my eyes. Kissing is better because when you kiss, you don’t have to see. Don’t have to look.
I’ve forgotten how to move, how to breathe because I’m changing. I’ve turned into a puddle, and nothing is the same.
“Are you okay?” Beckett half-smiles, but he’s so close his face is blurry. All I can see is blue because his eyes are attached to me.
“Yes. But, I think you broke something.” I look at the toppled wine glass that is now in a hundred more pieces than it was a moment ago.
I'm a puddle, I tell you. A puddle.
“No, you broke something. It’s me. You’ve already cracked open my heart and let yourself in.”
I don’t know whether to break out laughing or grab his face and pull.
Beckett doesn’t give me a chance to decide, because his lips engulf mine again, only this time, he’s got my hands in his, pulling me up as he makes his way around the disheveled table.
I can’t believe I’m kissing him, right here. But I feel like I have no choice. I don’t want a choice.
Hands. I love his hands.
No, I love his forearms. And his lips. Yes, definitely his lips.
STOP!
What the hell am I doing?
“Wait.” I push him away and drag the back of my hand over my lips like what just happened wasn’t the most delicious taste I’ve ever known.
“Sorry, what?” His face is drawn tight. There’s a tension there, and I know it’s from me.
“I . . .” I smooth my sweater down and look around to see no one is within our line of sight. “I just didn’t expect . . .”
Take a step back . . . take another.
There, that’s better. A little distance and now I remember to breathe.
“Come on. Let’s go.” His voice is still tense, but I’m not scared. Not of him.
We are silent for the first five minutes after leaving the restaurant, falling into step again. His hand lightly grazes the small of my back every time we walk by someone else on the street. His shoulders are square, hard angles. Most intelligent men give us a good safety zone when they move by.
Yet, there’s an incredible softness about him, a paternal, protective nature that is making me furious. This is not what I need right now. I want to kiss him and punch him.
“I don’t want to kiss you again,” I blurt out because the silence is killing me.
“Okay.” I hear the stifled amusement in his voice. “That’s fine.” I can see the corners of his lips going up, and before I think to take another breath (because I actually have to think about it right now), he’s got my hand in his again.
“Hey.” I start to pull away.
“I’m not kissing you; I’m holding your hand. So, are you saying you don’t want to hold my hand, either?”
I hate that I’m attracted to him. How did he wiggle his way through my moats and walls and armor in just a few days? Why does he have this strange power to draw me close, as if I know more about him than I do? Or, is it the other way around? Does he know more about me than he should?
“No, that’s fine.” That is not what I meant to say. “I don’t want a boyfriend.”
Oh my god, do I have no control over what is coming out of my mouth? I usually go an entire day without the need to speak; now I can’t stop.
STOP.
“Boyfriend? Well, that’s a little forward, Promise, but I’ll think about it.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and my hip a playful bump.
“No, I don’t . . . I mean.” I roll my eyes and try to gather a rational thought. “I am not looking for a relationship. I’m just not interested . . .”
Nothing. Just say nothing.
“Okay, so, you don’t want a kiss, you don’t want a boyfriend or a relationship. Got it. But, I’m still safe holding your hand. So,
as far as I’m concerned, I still win.”
I can feel him smiling, and I can’t help the matching one that covers my face.
“You might want to kiss me, though. I’m pretty sure that kiss back there wasn’t all me. And, it was pretty amazing.” Beckett glides next to me, and I am surprised at how such a large man can walk so softly.
Neither of us says anything the rest of the five blocks to the industrial building where he lives. Even with no words, we are definitely having a conversation. He doesn’t let my hand go the entire walk and his face alternates between a goofy smile and giving the stink eye to anyone who walks past us.
I realize that besides some vague notion that he’s a military guy, I don’t really know anything about him. What he did in the military, what he plans to do when he’s out. If he will ever be out.
Something feels comfortable with him, even if he is a stranger. Practically a stranger. Bruce showed me his father’s records. There was not much there, just his general information, age twenty-seven. I got that part.
He could be one of the many military guys that scream drunken propositions at me when I dance, but something tells me that is not his thing. His eyes tell me he’s got bigger things on his mind, and I desperately want to know what those are. But at the same time, I don’t want to ask.
“You first.” He opens the door, and his hand is in that perfect spot on my back again.
Back inside the loft, my face feels like I’ve been sitting in a Swedish sauna, the heat spreading down my back and covering my body with steaming vapor. I’m not planning anything, but I still glance over to see that his dad’s apartment door is shut tight.
When was the last time I kissed someone? Three years? Maybe more?
And, it had been nothing to raise jazz hands about. I think his name was Michael. No, Mitchell.
Anyway, it was a mercy date Sissy had set up for me. The kiss had been nothing more than an obligatory ritual at the door of my apartment. I think he’d hoped to get goodnight-laid as opposed to a goodnight kiss, but that was never going to happen.
Over all the years and all the homes I’d lived in, I’d never managed to become attached enough to anyone to even have their number in my phone. As a matter of fact, I only have two numbers in my phone.
Bruce.
Jeremy.
I’m not sure what’s about to happen here, and all my instincts are telling me to run, but the way my heart is slamming against my chest, I’d probably fall down in a heap, and he’d have to resuscitate me.
Inside the loft, he releases the hand he’s been holding all the way up the stairs, and I let go of a deep breath. Not sure how long I’ve been holding it, but it feels really good to breathe in.
“Okay, in we go.” Beckett has the clearest, deepest voice I’ve ever heard. You want to close your eyes and drown in it.
“I’m not sleeping with you. I’m not even going to kiss you,” I blurt again and shake my head at myself.
“Got it.” Beckett holds up one hand. “No sleeping. No boyfriends. No kissing. No relationships. I’m keeping track.” He’s raising a finger with each ‘No.’ “Don’t worry, I have a list going of all the things you don’t want.”
That smug smile makes me want to bury my face in my palms. But, the good nature of his humor keeps my hands at my side.
“I technically have seventeen minutes left in your shift that I’ve pre-paid.” He holds out his hands and slips my jacket off my shoulders for the second time today.
I could get used to this, being treated like a lady.
The little primitive flutter between my legs is now officially creating a problem for me. You see, I made a solemn vow seven years, four months and six days ago that I would never—NEVER—fall for a guy again.
Only, it seems my seven years of good luck is running out because this mountain of scarred, brooding man-meat is making me feel things I’d promised never to feel again.
“I should check on your dad.”
Beckett is still standing right behind me. The touch of his hands on my shoulders to take my jacket has sent a sky full of migrating Monarch butterflies down my spine.
He’s not speaking, but he’s saying a lot . . . and I’m listening. His fingertips wrap under the hair that has fallen out of my loose bun and pull it over. The left side of my neck is suddenly cooler, exposed, and I can feel the warmth of his breath on my ear.
“Your dad . . .” I manage to squeak out, but I’m not even sure what it is I want to do with his dad right now.
Seven years . . . four months . . . how many days?
“Promise, you are beautiful.”
That is the last thing I remember before my world spun like a hurricane, and I felt something I’ve never felt before.
His lips touched as light as a feather at the base of my neck, but I felt it in every cell in my body. He’s holding them there, and I want to claw at him.
I must have been crazy. I am crazy. Why wouldn’t I want this? This is by far the best feeling ever. I want more.
STOP.
No, don’t stop. It’s just a kiss. I can stop it later, whenever I want.
STOP.
I can’t keep my eyes open. His lips are decisive, the softness turning to pressure. His lips are sure, but I’m not.
“Is this okay?” He whispers in my ear, his voice deep and hard and yet the softest thing I’ve ever heard.
Now I feel his tongue. It’s light, warm and I’m spinning in that hurricane. There is screaming wind inside my head. The demons are scratching at my eyeballs and bellowing with laughter. They are sure, once again, I will end up as someone’s perverse joke, but I don’t care.
This is different.
He is different.
Is he? You don’t even know him.
I let my head fall back against that field of muscle that is his chest, and his hand moves up to wrap under the curtain of my hair and steady me. His fingers wrap completely around, and I realize he could kill me so easily. One twist of his massive hand and I would be a lump at his feet.
“I won’t hurt you, Promise.” It comes out of him like a commandment.
He’s reading my mind because I needed him to tell me that. Right now. And he did.
How did he know?
Beckett
There cannot be any other place like this.
I would live here, in this second, for the rest of my life and not have one fucking regret.
She tastes like the fury of winter and the lust of spring.
The fact that she is allowing my lips on her skin is, in fact, the most beautiful moment of my life.
A kiss, after all, is not just a kiss.
Her skin calls to me. I can see in my mind the way I want to leave my mark on her.
What is that? This dire urge to wrap every part of me around her and absorb her into me.
I’ve fucked a lot of girls, women. . . . Well, both.
Did I really ever believe that there was one person that would feel like this? One person that could corrupt all the ones that came before and create in me a place I’d not yet discovered?
This, what I’m doing right now, is new. All the kisses that came before must have been called something else because they are melted snowflakes on a hot sidewalk. Gone, evaporated, non-existent.
Her head is leaning back, and it seems every move and every sound she makes is redefining that word, “beautiful.”
I pause my lips in the spot under her jaw because I can feel the blood moving in her veins. The little pump is fast, and I want it to be because of me.
Or, is it fear? Because I could understand if it was.
I’m overwhelmed with this sense of possession as I feel her heart pumping each thump onto my lips. I want her in a way that I didn’t know wanting knew.
Awakened, an instinct. The way a parent feels for their own.
There is a shudder that raises somewhere from low in her and finds its way to my lips.
In an instant, I’ve got her spun against
the counter. Her eyes are slits almost as if she doesn’t want to look but can’t trust to close them completely.
For the first time in my life, I’m fighting an inner battle. I want her more than my heart wants its next beat, but I’m not sure it’s the right thing for her.
My dick is about to stage a coup, but her wide eyes are more deer-in-the-headlights than I’m-ready-lets-do-this.
Her lips are mine in the next second, and before I seal mine to hers, I hear the gasp.
My tongue brushes the softness of her lips. I’m not pressing, I’m asking, and even the split second it takes for her to kiss me back feels like every year of my life in slow motion.
Holy hellfire, this is not a kiss. This is a play, our kiss Act I of the rest of my life.
Her tongue doesn’t seek but mine does, and it is the sweetest of brilliant moments when I realize I’m inside her mouth. She’s letting me kiss her again, like this, and a light comes to me from behind her eyes. I make a silent promise to never ever hurt her—to never make her feel less than the magical creature she is.
The strange desire to grip her throat and control her breath overcomes my more rational thoughts, but I pull back. The fast pace of our breath becomes warm between us, and I realize my fingertips are still gripping around the back of her neck, harder than intended.
“Sorry . . .” I loosen my fingers and close my eyes, trying to find my control.
Promise is shaking, and I realize I’m covering her with my body, bending her back over the edge of the countertop. I pull her up and into me as I rest my forehead atop the part of her ivory hair, taking in a deep breath of her.
“It’s okay.” She sounds nervous, her words automatic like she doesn’t know what else to say.
“No, it’s not okay. You said you didn’t want to kiss me again. I guess I’m not a very good listener.”
A musical breath of muffled laughter comes from under me, and I want to hear that sound for the rest of my life.
My hands are on her cheeks, brushing the heat with my thumbs, steeling my eyes to hers. There’s an unusual lightness in my head, a jerking and stabbing near my heart, and my breath won’t sink far enough into my lungs to satisfy my need for oxygen.