“So instead, you just… ignored me?” I whisper.
“No.” He tears off another piece and feeds it to me. “I held myself back.”
“I thought you said this was for you,” I say around a mouthful of sugar.
“Oh, it is,” he says, eyes on my lips. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. "And tonight, I'm starving."
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
He brushes the corner of my mouth with his thumb, collecting the sugar. Then he brings it to his lips and licks it off slowly. “Eating candy."
Jordan kisses me.
It starts as a brush—gentle, testing—but his hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me in. His mouth moves over mine, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, like he’s been holding this in for too long.
He kisses like he’s claiming something.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and when I open for him, the kiss turns molten. I rise onto my toes, my hands curling into the front of his shirt, needing something to hold onto.
He groans low in his throat and the sound slides straight through me.
His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me in place. He presses closer, and I swear I feel the full length of him against his thigh. Everything else—lights, sound, the world—fades. Without thinking, I surge against him.
Suddenly—he tears his mouth away and takes a step back, then he presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard.
“God,” he whispers. “I should not have done that.”
My voice shakes. “You should have.”
He lets out a broken laugh and rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed. “No. I really shouldn’t have. Because now I know how you taste. And it’s going to ruin me.”
He pulls back enough to look at me, his gaze lingering on my now-swollen lips.
“Tell me again that you’re seventeen.”
I lick my lips, chasing the remnants of sugar and Jordan's taste, then whisper. “I turn eighteen in just two months.”
His jaw clenches. “Christ,” he breathes. “This is going to be hard.”
7
Iwakeuponmy eighteenth birthday wet and aching.
Two months of almost kisses and one stolen one that tasted like spun sugar. Two months of his arms around me and his voice in my ear—not yet, baby.
Two months of wanting a man determined to be honorable. And I both love and hate him for it.
After the night at the park, Jordan became even more strict, to my utter frustration.
Prolonged denial has turned me into something feral. Something that spends entire nights sobbing into a pillow because I can’t get him out of my head, or off my skin, or out of the place between my legs he absolutely refuses to touch.
I roll over with a groan and press my face into the pillow. Eighteen. Finally eighteen.
As if on cue, a knock sounds on my bedroom window.
My heart stops. He’s here. He warned me he'd be the first thing I see when I woke up today.
