It is.
“You’re good at this,” she whispers.
“No,” I admit quietly. “I’m not. Not with anyone else.”
Her cheeks flush deeper. “Oh.”
She looks up.
And I fall into her eyes as if they’re the first stars of the night sky.
We move slow. Easy. We might as well have done it a hundred times instead of never. Her fingers curl behind my neck. Mine tighten at her waist. Her thigh brushes mine, just barely, but enough to send heat spiraling up my spine.
She tilts her face up to me, lips parted, breath warm against my mouth. Her eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling. She’s standing at the very edge of everything she wants and fears at the same time.
I lean in.
Her breath catches, and then she leans in too, her nose brushing mine, her fingers tightening at the nape of my neck. A silent, desperateyes.
Her lips hover over mine.
A bare breath away.
So close I can taste the sweetness between us.
So close the world narrows to nothing but her.
So close my heart slams once, hard, and then stops entirely.
I close the distance…
And our lips finally meet.
Her mouth parts under mine, warm and sweet and wanting, her fingers fisting in my shirt as she leans into the kiss. Heat flares through me as I deepen the kiss just a fraction, letting her feel every ounce of what I’m trying so damn hard not to say out loud.
She exhales a quiet, helpless sound against my mouth, and it nearly drags me under.
I cup her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, pulling her closer until her body fits flush against mine. Her hands slide down my chest, gripping, anchoring us both as the kiss turns deeper, hungrier, her lips moving against mine, tasting the part of herself she’s been trying to deny.
And then…
“Oh, come on, guys… make it interesting for us!”
Roman’s voice blasts across the field on a stadium mic.
Delaney jerks so hard she nearly slips.
I freeze mid-kiss, breath still tangled with hers.
A chorus of groans and laughter ripples through the crowd.
Roman stands on top of a picnic table, drink raised, grinning because he absolutely believes he’s the funniest person alive.
“Put some back into it, Westbrook,” he hollers. “I’ve seen middle schoolers commit more.”
Ezra drags a hand down his face.
Creed mutters, “Sit down.”
