He moves.
One second there's barely any space between us, the next his hand is cupping the back of my neck, and he's pulling me toward him, and his mouth is on mine.
And I—
Oh.
The kiss is not gentle.
It's not sweet or tentative or any of the things I imagined a first kiss might be. It's demanding and desperate and tastes like twelve days of watching each other and two days of distance and every single time I counted the inches between our bodies and wanted to close them.
His other hand tightens on my waist, pulls me flush against him, and there's no gap anymore. No distance. No space to measureor count. Just him and me and his mouth on mine like he's trying to prove something.
Like he's trying to erase every doubt Kimberly planted in my head with each sweep of his tongue.
His hand slides from my neck into my hair, fisting there, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I hear myself make a sound—something helpless and needy that I've never made before—and his grip tightens on my waist, his fingers digging in through my coat.
I should stop this.
Should pull away, should remember all the reasons this is a bad idea, should protect myself.
But instead I find myself kissing him back like I'm drowning and he's air. My hands find
his jacket, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer even though there's no closer to get. His hand in my hair tugs slightly, not hard enough to hurt but enough that I feel it, enough that something low in my stomach tightens.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against mine, both of us panting white clouds into the cold air.
"A phase," he says, and his voice is wrecked. Destroyed. "You think you are a phase?"
"I don't know what I am."
"You are the only person who has made me want to stay still. To stop racing. To stop
running from everything I do not want to feel." His forehead presses harder against mine. "Does that sound like a phase?"
I can't answer. Can't think. Can't do anything except stand here with my heart pounding and his taste on my lips and his words sinking into my skin like brands.
"I need—" He stops. Starts again. "I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"I do not know how to do this. I do not know how to be—" He gestures between us, the movement sharp, frustrated. "This. I know how to be fast. I know how to win. But this? Wanting someone? Needing someone? Feeling—" He stops again. Takes a breath. "Feeling jealous when I watch you laugh with another man? I do not know how to do that
without—"
He doesn't finish.
He kisses me again instead.
And this time, it's different. Slower. Deeper. Like he's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the way I taste, the small sounds I make when his teeth catch my bottom lip and pull.
We're moving. I realize this distantly. He's backing me up, step by step, until my back hits brick, and we're in an alley—somewhere between the café and my apartment—and I should care about this. Should care that we're in public, that someone might see, that this is reckless and stupid and everything I told myself I wouldn't do.
But I don't care.
I don't care about anything except the way he's kissing me like I'm something precious and dangerous at the same time.
His hands move. One stays in my hair, the other slides down my side, slow and deliberate, and even through my coat I can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers press into my ribs like he's counting them.
