He released my finger, smiling, and I brought it to my mouth, pretending to lick any leftover chocolate—even though he had cleaned it off.
“Thank you for dinner, Ballerina Girl.”
“Oh,” I sighed. “My pleasure.”
“Do you think a man like me doesn’t offer appreciation for what he takes?”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Your face says otherwise,” he said. “I don’t always show my gratitude through words. Actions.”
Sitting back in his seat, hands together, he studied me for a long minute. Once he seemed to collect his thoughts, he cleared his throat. He leaned forward, closer to me, and then set his hands on the table. He moved his hands a lot when he talked. “You want to do so much now.” It wasn’t a question. It rarely was with him.
“Yes,” was all that I could manage. I yearned to do so much—to start living. But I didn’t want to justdo things; I wanted to do themwith him. Without him, it all felt pointless.
It had occurred to me that this narrative sounded like it was coming from one of those fragile heroines in a romantic story, the kind who depend on a man to see them through every life challenge, but if it did—I didn’t give a damn. Not with Brando Fausti as my hero. Besides, I might have been young, but something about him made me more powerful than I felt alone. He beefed up my backbone.
He nodded once, acknowledging my answer. “If you attempt to do them without me—” he opened and closed his hands “—the little sanity I have left will be lost. That’ll be dangerous for the world, Scarlett.”
“Because you need to protect me?”
“Yeah.”
“Because you want to make sure that I don’t make any mistakes?”
He stared at his hands. The nod that came was slow, thoughtful; he knew where we were headed with this line of questioning. “You’ll do them with me. For more than those reasons.” His eyes came up slowly, and in the candlelight glow, they were the color of melted chocolate.
When the heart and stomach are in agreement, and back in their rightful places, they take over the brain, which happened to me in that moment. All of my inhibitions were overruled and my mouth just took the lead.
“I’ve never been kissed,” I blurted. We had almost kissed under the stars, in the back of whoever’s truck that was out by the train tracks, but it was more of a tease, or a sample, not a true kiss.
I thought he would laugh, or at the least try to hide his amusement. None of those things happened. “I know,” he whispered. “You’re mine, Scarlett.”
His words made me shiver, as though they had passed over me in a soft caress, but the conviction was strong, so strong it clashed with the softness. Fire against ice. Surrender was the only option.
If I were going to keep up with him, I had to learn how to slow my roll, allow him to lead this dance, give our moments together the power to linger. The delicate thing between us deserved the chance to grow, to strengthen, without force.
He stood, keeping the connection strong, and when he was close enough to look down at me, he offered me his hands.
Without hesitation, I put both of mine in his and he helped me stand.
He used his fingertip to push the loose pieces of my hair back, and then he caressed my face—along my forehead, the shape of my eyebrows, over my eyes, down my nose, all the way to my lips. He traced the outline of them, even softer than he had traced the lines of my face.
His eyes became even more intense, lowering, almost studying the shape of my lips as though he were memorizing each minute detail that came together to form the whole.
Closing my eyes, I wobbled, a bit off balance. One hand snaked around my waist, his arm pulling me even closer. My entire being melted into his, and our lines blurred to form a figure eight. I began where he ended.
We are never ending.
I’m not sure if the words came from him or me, or from someplace deeper, the connection that spoke to me through blood.Flesh and bone, heart and soul, seemed to accept this at once, and the truth rushed me.
My body went slack and a small breath escaped my parted lips. He seized this moment, putting his mouth to mine, taking my wasted breath for his own. As though I were the oxygen to his lungs, he breathed me in.
The kiss started slow but was no less powerful for it. His mouth taught mine, and without hesitation, I became his to teach. The rush of it soared through my veins, through my stomach, all the way to the tips of my toes, and back up again. It surged like a high.
Now our mouths moved together in slow motion, tender, almost fleetingly so. That was, until a throaty moan came from somewhere deep inside of me and I sunk my nails into his shoulders.
When did my hands move? Where did I find the strength? The need to touch him was instinctual.
