Kiss Me Slow (Top Shelf Romance Book 1)

by Tijan

  I nodded. “I know.” But there were knots in my stomach. I couldn’t deny them. “Just . . .” I leaned my head back and turned toward him so we were inches apart. “I don’t trust them.”

  “Yeah. I get that.” He dipped down, his lips touching mine and resting there a moment before he whispered, “But I don’t want Stephanie Witts. I don’t want anyone else.” His eyes were hard on me.

  My body warmed. A tingle shot through me.

  I grinned, my lips curving against his. “You’re all I want too.”

  He pulled back, an uncharacteristic seriousness on his face. No smile. No grin. No smirk. No amusement in his gaze. He was suddenly so serious. “I just want you. I just love you.”

  My tongue felt heavy.

  I should say it back, but I was still hearing Willow.

  Pain sliced through me, and I turned away—I started to turn away.

  He caught me, his hand touching my chin, and he moved me back to look at him. His thumb caressed my jawline, and his eyes dipped to my mouth. “I couldn’t have said this a year ago. I couldn’t have said this six months ago, but I can now. It took me that long, Mac. Derek’s death fucked me up, so when I say I get it—I get it. But I want to say it.”

  I needed it.

  It was like air to me.

  I turned my body, my head holding still, and slowly, I crawled until I was straddling him in the darkened hallway. It was empty, but people were probably lingering just around the corner or by the gym. Two steps—that would be all it would take for someone to round the corner and find us there.

  I so wasn’t caring at that moment.

  I settled down on top of him, feeling him beneath me, and his hands moved to my hips.

  I leaned forward, my lips nipping his, and I whispered, “I want to show you what I can’t say, not yet.”

  “Oh yeah?” A small grin pulled at his lips, and he watched me with dark amusement.

  “Yeah.” I shifted, pushing down with my hips. He was hard for me. His gym pants didn’t obstruct him much, and my jeans were a little baggy.

  God.

  I glanced left and right, but no one was there.

  Biting my lip, feeling all the right tingles and pleasure filling me, I knew I should get up. We should take this somewhere else, but I was not caring.

  This was reckless.

  This was stupid.

  This was dangerously intoxicating, and with that last thought—I stopped thinking. My hips pressed against his, and he pulled me in, holding me against him and lifting his hips a little to grind against me.

  “Fuck, Mac.” He pulled back, his eyes so damned dark I wanted to get lost in them. His left hand slid up my waist, up my arm, around to my front, and lingered between my breasts. They were straining for him, but he didn’t go any farther. He just stayed there, feeling my heartbeat and watching me all the while.

  He groaned. “You make me feel things I thought were gone.”

  He seemed tormented by that, and I shifted back a little and slid my hand through his hair. It was half-dry, so there was a tiny little bit of a messy curl to it. I loved how it was chaotic.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  His hand went back to my hip, and he cupped me there, jerking me back in place. He fit right, perfect.

  I was having a hard time not moving my hips again, rocking on top of him.

  He rested his head back against the locker, watching me. “Derek was my best friend, not Kirk.”

  “I thought . . .”

  He shook his head, his eyes still so dark. “Kirk became my best friend after Derek died, but it was him and me. Even the others—Tom, Nick, and Pete—they knew that. It was me and Derek. Then he died, and God—” He let out an anguished breath, closing his eyes as lines of tension formed around his mouth. “I used to think no one got it. No one understood.”

  I shifted back even farther.

  My gut was sinking. My chest was starting to tear open.

  I had a feeling I knew exactly what he was going to say.

  He looked at me. “I thought no one would understand what it felt like to hurt so badly that you just wanted to go with that person.” His hand smoothed down my hip, stopping on top of my leg, and he looked down at it. “Until you.”

  He lifted his gaze again. The torment was so real, so haunting, that it hurt me to be there. Every bone in my body started to ache, but not from him. Not because of him. Not in a way that made me want to run from this.

  It was an ache because someone else understood.

  It was almost as if, for a split second, I got her back. Ryan took Willow’s spot. I took Derek’s spot, and we were the other’s mourned loss for a moment.

  Then I gasped, and the feeling left me.

  It was back to us. Ryan and me. The ghosts had gone again.

  “I didn’t know.”

  He shrugged and went back to watching his hand. He traced it up and down the inside of my leg. “He died before basketball season that year. Some told me I didn’t have to participate, if it might be too much for me, but I wanted to. All the others who kept quiet, I knew they were relieved. They wanted me to play. They didn’t care about Derek, but it was him and me. We were co-captains on the JV team. I played varsity too, but I don’t know . . .”

  His eyes met mine. The anguish was back. He whispered, “All I did right away was play ball. It was like I was half-trying to forget him, and half-trying to kill myself. You know?”

  I nodded. My heart was in my throat. “Yes.”

  “But everyone wanted something from me. They wanted me to win. They wanted me to keep going, get faster, learn more drills, learn more tricks. The coaches. The teachers. My friends. My parents—it was all of them. I never got a fucking break. All they wanted was to fucking win. All I wanted was to fucking die.”

  “Ryan,” I whispered, moving back to him. I hurt, but this time, the pain wasn’t mine. It was his. I put my hand where his had been, right in the middle of his chest. I felt his heart pounding. It was so fast, almost skipping a beat before going even faster to try to make up for it.

  I wanted to say something to calm him, slow his heartbeat, but there were no words.

  There was only grief and the silence that accompanied it.

  He bent and took my hand, kissing it and holding it tightly. “I gave everything that year, and I was empty after it. I had nothing when the season ended.”

  “That was when you stopped caring.”

  “Yeah.” He squeezed my hand, resting it against his chest. His other hand went to my hipbone and burrowed under my jeans, his thumb rubbing over my skin. “Kirk and I, we didn’t give a damn. Drugs. Drinking. Fights. Fucking.” He grimaced. “None of it worked.” His hand started up my back, sliding under my shirt. “It took a year and a half, but all of that went away.” He stopped, his hand right next to my ribcage. He held me in a gentle embrace, as if I were a delicate treasure. “I get what you feel. I get you talking to Willow. I get you sitting in a dark and empty hallway. I get you leaving the bed to cry in your guest bathroom. I get it. You don’t think I do sometimes, but I do.”

  “Ryan.” Tears slid down my face. I reached up, cupping his cheek. “I . . .”

  I wanted to say it.

  I was feeling it. I was feeling more than just that word, but . . . the words wouldn’t form.

  His eyes flickered, shuddering a second, and then the agony was gone. He had closed up, returned to being the old Ryan again, and my heart sank because I realized this had been him the whole time.

  He had been shut down this whole time too.

  “Don’t.” I leaned forward, catching his face with my hands. I moved so close, my eyes jumping back and forth between his, my lips almost touching his. “Don’t do that. Not to me.”

  “Don’t what?”

  But he knew. He so knew, and I shook my head.

  “Don’t shut me out. I’m not them.”

  His eyes shut again, resting a second, and his chest rose as he took in a
deep breath. Then they opened, and I was seeing the real him. He just opened up for me again.

  “There.” I raised my hands, cupping the sides of his temples, right next to his eyes. My forehead rested against his. “There you are.”

  More pieces fit together.

  Both his hands went to my hips, and he gripped me, just holding me in place.

  And then, because it was the right time and a gate had shattered inside me, I said, “I love you, and I love you for loving me.”

  His eyes closed again, as did mine, and we stayed there, just holding each other.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  My first warning should’ve been Erin.

  She was standing on the curb in front of Stephanie Witts’ house when we pulled in. Peach was next to her, and Tom right behind her, but for some reason, their welcoming party didn’t sound the alarms in my head.

  It might’ve been the feeling I was basking in at that moment—telling Ryan I loved him and genuinely feeling it, not feeling all the other baggage inside that had kept pushing it down so I couldn’t say it. It felt like a weight off my shoulders.

  Or maybe it was because I had a strong feeling I couldn’t hold up my promise not to have sex with Ryan again. Though, it wouldn’t be sex. It’d be making love.

  I suddenly wanted to know what that felt like so bad it was almost worth risking my mom’s anger.

  Or maybe it was that Ryan hadn’t let go of my hand. The only time was when we separated to get into his truck, and he was still holding it as he pulled up to the curb and threw his truck into park.

  Of all people to greet us, it shouldn’t have been those three.

  Peach? Maybe. Tom? Maybe. Both of them together? Terrible idea but still plausible. But Erin? There might’ve been a temporary truce or a tentative peace between us, whatever we had, but we weren’t friends. So yeah, all three of them should’ve been sounding my alarms at full blast.

  We got out. Ryan came around the front and still the trio said nothing.

  Tom wore an uneasy grin. As Ryan came to my side, he stepped away from Peach and dipped his head. “Ryan. Mackenzie.”

  Peach shared his uneasiness, biting her lip and looking as if she wanted to reach for his hand. She didn’t. She tucked it under her other arm, almost holding herself back, and her head hanging a tiny bit.

  It hit me then. Those two were backup for—and my gaze found the girl who’d been my first enemy at Portside: Ryan’s ex-girlfriend/fuck buddy.

  Then the alarms sounded, tightening my gut. “Erin.”

  She didn’t even look at Ryan. Her eyes were only for me, and I saw the sorrow. It flickered there, but it was strong. It was evident. Her eyes clouded, her eyebrows pinched together, and she frowned, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

  “I had no idea,” she said.

  “No idea about what?”

  Ryan moved forward a little, as if he wanted to shield me. “What are you talking about, Erin?”

  She still didn’t look at him, but his sister did. Peach went to Erin’s other side, standing in front of her brother. She held her hand out, saying softly, “Ryan . . .”

  He ignored her, barking out, “Erin!”

  The door opened behind them. Music, light, and people spilled out.

  “Ryan!”

  “Mackenzie!”

  Kirk, Cora, Nick, and Pete darted down the front lawn.

  Cora was unnaturally pale, and her face was streaked with tears. Once her eyes hit mine, she jerked to a stop, and I watched as she sucked in her breath. Kirk stopped too, looking toward her. He frowned and reached for her hand, but like Erin, she only had eyes for me.

  She and Erin were both terrified—for me.

  The guys were sending nervous looks at me, but they were more wary of Ryan.

  Because . . .

  Because why?

  Why were they concerned about him when the girls were so scared for me?

  Me.

  Because of . . .

  Because Ryan was protective of me, but Erin and Cora . . . the way they were looking at me, as if they pitied me and were horrified at the same time.

  It’s me.

  I jerked backward, hearing Willow’s voice like she was standing in front of me.

  I swayed, clasping my eyes shut.

  No . . .

  Yes, Willow sighed. They’re going to use me to get at you.

  I looked again, past everyone in front of me, and I saw her.

  She was faint, like a mere reflection in the wind, wavering all around, but I saw her.

  Willow was looking right at me, wearing the same dress she had on in the dream. A pink, shimmering dress, but there was no crown on her head. This time, her hair was pulled up into a braid and wrapped around her head, looking like a crown in and of itself.

  But she looked alive, so alive that I heard myself exhale a ragged breath.

  I blinked a few times, but she was still there.

  There were no more words. She didn’t come toward me. She didn’t point inside, but I knew she was leading the way.

  She wanted me to go in, and feeling her courage join mine, I grew calm. I felt ready, and I started forward.

  Everyone turned then, and I heard Cora gasp.

  “Holy sh—” Kirk exclaimed.

  They saw her.

  They honest to God saw her.

  I almost faltered, my knees buckling, and then she vanished. I only felt her beside me. Her hand touched mine. More strength transferred to me, but there was also peace. Contentment. She was letting me feel everything right along with her.

  The door swung open. Someone saw me coming and was ready. The music cut off, and everyone who had been standing around on the walkway turned to watch. Some were smirking. Some were laughing. Some were sad. And the pity—that seared me the most.

  I didn’t want anyone’s pity, but I was getting it. I gritted my teeth. Whatever was ahead of me, I would show them I didn’t need it.

  They were in the living room.

  The crowd didn’t part for me when the hallway forked off to the dining room and kitchen. But it opened to the living room, where people were sitting on the couches. Others were spread out, sitting all over the floor.

  They were watching a movie on a large screen. It wasn’t even the television. It had been projected onto the wall for maximum effect, and standing right to the side of it was Stephanie Witts, but she wasn’t alone.

  Zoe.

  Gianna.

  And next to them? Duke and Willow’s ex-best friend, Serena. He had his arm around her. I turned away from them. They didn’t even deserve my attention, but Duke dropped his arm as soon as he saw me. His eyes widened, and he jerked forward a step.

  “Mackenzie—”

  He was already groveling. I heard it in his voice, and I leveled him with a hard look. “Don’t. Even.”

  I didn’t need to ask how they got there. I looked right at Stephanie. “What’d you do? Go on my social media? Google my sister’s name?”

  Her eyebrows went up, and her lips pulled back in a haughty smirk. “You told me to come at you with the worst I could do.” She waved at my ex-friends, at Willow’s ex-friends. “Here you go. They’ve been telling me all about your sister—”

  I finally looked at the screen, and I tuned her out. She was saying things, no doubt hurtful things, but it didn’t matter in that moment.

  Willow had been right. It was her. They were watching a compilation video of her winning the championship with that six-foot, papier-mâché dragon. She smiled, holding the dragon in one hand and the purple ribbon in the other. Her trophy was next to her, and she was so proud. She was beaming. Then the video skipped ahead to her nuzzling noses with Duke. Then I saw her and her friends, all in their cheerleading uniforms. Then older pictures of Willow—her school pictures when she was in third grade, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, all the way up to what should have been this year’s picture.

  They showed her senior picture.

  I
felt tears sliding down my face, but I didn’t care.

  So many pieces, one after another, connected, and they were strong. Twenty-five. Goddamn twenty-five, and I felt them in me. They were pulsating. They were buzzing. They were firm, cement, and more were coming.

  “You guys had your pictures taken right before you moved,” Duke murmured, coming closer. “She mailed that back to me. I got it a week after . . .”

  She’d sent it before she killed herself.

  I didn’t respond to him. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to yet. The video kept going.

  Pictures of Willow and me: she was smiling, I was rolling my eyes.

  Pictures of her in her track uniform and me in my soccer uniform.

  Pictures of us hugging each other.

  Pictures taken of us at school lunch one day. I had a bag of Cheetos, and she was eating a carrot. A goddamn carrot.

  Pictures of us before school: Willow was in a dress. I was in jeans.

  Willow wore a skirt, and I had holes in my shirt. Willow’s hair was always perfectly styled, and mine was pulled into a messy ponytail.

  I got the message Stephanie wanted to send, and I looked at her, wiping some of my tears away. “What? Are you going to follow this presentation with your decision that she shouldn’t have killed herself, and I should’ve? That she was the twin who shined, and I wasn’t? That I’m drab, and dull, and boring? And she excelled at almost everything?”

  I had crossed the living room so my shadow hit the projector. Images of my sister continued to play over my face, but I kept staring right at Stephanie.

  “Do you think I don’t think of that every day since I found her?” I whispered. “Do you think I’m not haunted by her? By the thought that if I had—maybe she wouldn’t have?”

  My voice broke at the end.

  Someone sniffled behind me.

  I heard another whisper.

  And I felt a presence at my back. I thought it was Willow at first until a hand—a real live hand—touched mine. It was Ryan. He didn’t pull me back, though. He was just there for me.

  I latched on to him, lacing our fingers together, and he moved a step closer so I could feel his heat against my back. His other hand rested on my hip.