“Woman, I just had to climb that tree for this motherfucker,” he deadpans. “Like, straight-up George of the Jungle, and now you wanna take my apple?”
“Yep,” I singsong, stepping forward. “That’s basically what I’m saying.”
He looks from me to the apple, and his expression turns to amused as he steps toward me, leaving only an inch or two between us before lifting the apple to my mouth.
“Go on, Nineteen. Taste it.”
We may be talking about apples here, surrounded by a field of them, but when he brushes it to my lips, my heart flutters. I’m suddenly shy, and yet that doesn’t stop me from opening my mouth and taking a bite as he holds it steady.
“Well?” he rasps as I chew and swallow my bite down.
“It’s a good one. It’s sweet,” I whisper seconds before he takes a bite of it too.
“It is,” he agrees, his eyes suddenly darkening. “But I can think of something that’s even sweeter.” He tosses the apple beside us, and his eyes bore into mine.
His chest rises and falls while we continue this stare down. He doesn’t need to say what’s sweeter—I can read between the lines. I know—or I hope—that he’s talking about me. And truth be told, if he wanted to shove me against a tree and do exactly what we did in the parking lot of the arena … I think I’d let him.
And more …
Hendrix’s eyes fall to my lips, and despite what I said the other night, I know if he kisses me, I’m not going to push him away. I’m going to let it happen because, inside … I want him to. I still stand by what I said. Kissing is romantic, and it’s something that somehow feels deeper than the things we’ve done. But I’m realizing that I’m okay with that now.
He drops his bag of apples to the ground, prompting me to do the same, before his face moves closer to mine. Hands cup my cheeks as he forces my lips to tilt upward.
My eyes flutter shut a split second before his lips connect with mine, and one of his hands slides into my hair. It feels like fireworks are being ignited throughout my entire body,exploding up to my brain, making me lightheaded as I kiss him back.
I’ve been kissed before, but I’ve never felt a kiss this deep into my being.
His hand drops down onto my waist, pulling my body against his, and I whimper into his mouth when his erection pokes into my abdomen. I don’t want to come up for air—ever. Because right now, I’m too drunk off his kiss to think about why we shouldn’t be getting this close. If we stop, reality will strike.
But I can’t stop this—and right now, I don’t want to either. I’m not sure how long I’ll let this go on or how far I’ll let him take it, and I don’t get to find out either. Because when big, fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky, followed by the roar of thunder, I quickly pull away from him.
Hendrix reaches down, grabbing our bags from the ground before jerking his chin toward the other end of the field.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he calls out as the rain turns into a pour.
We begin running side by side through the field, heading toward the small stand where you get your bags and also pay. When we reach the stand, he nods toward the truck as water drips from his hair and down his face.
“Go get in my truck. I’ll pay,” he yells, and reluctantly, I take off toward the truck.
I’m soaked now, and by the time I climb in, I’m shivering. But I feel worse for him when, moments later, I see him running toward me.
Opening the back door, he throws the two bags in before slamming it and getting behind the wheel.
“Guess it’s self-serve today, or they didn’t want to be here during the storm.” He shrugs. “I put money into their drop box. Hopefully I used their scale correctly.”
Water drips from him, and his hoodie is drenched, yet he looks at me and grins.
“Damn you, Nineteen. Distracting me with your plump fucking lips and making me get my ass soaked.” Turning the truck on quickly when he sees me shiver, he cranks the heat on. “Let’s get you out of the soaked clothes. You’re fucking freezing.”
My lips tremble. “Your clothes are dripping even more than mine,” I say, cringing. “Get that hoodie off. It’s drenched.”
“Hardy, if you want me to get naked, all you have to do is ask.” He pulls the hoodie off, tossing it into the back of the truck. “I have a clean spare practice jersey in the back and a pair of sweatpants. It’ll all be big for you, but you can wear that home.”
“You should wear them,” I say, chewing my bottom lip. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
Before he can answer, I tug my soaked hoodie off, leaving me in my NEU women’s hockey T-shirt, which is also saturated. But what’s getting me the most right now is my leggings sticking to my skin.
Pulling my wet sneakers off, I cringe but hook my fingertips into the waistband of my leggings. Before I tug them down, I glance at Hendrix.
