But his hand comes up to my face, and he traces the shell of my ear, the line of my cheek, the dip of my chin. Tingles buzz across my entire body, like that time I got very slightly electrocuted plugging in the fairy lights for the ballroom scene inCinderella.
And then he’s leaning in again, and I’m meeting him, and this time it’s him who presses his lips to mine. His hand moves to cradle the back of my head, and it’s warm and soft as his fingers slide through my hair, and I keep kissing him back harder, and then he uses his lips to press my mouth open.
His tongue meets mine, and it’s like he’s doing this choreographed dance, and I don’t know the steps so I just let him lead. I taste the chocolate of his mocha, feel the heat of his breath. My own hand squeezes his—the one on my knee, not the one on myneck—because if he accidentally shifts he’s going to find out just how much I enjoy kissing him.
My heart’s hammering like I just did an entire scene change on my own when he finally breaks the kiss. I look up into his eyes: The pupils are dilated, black swallowing blue; his whole face is red, and he’s smiling at me like he just saw a sunrise for the first time.
“Was that okay?” I think he asks, but I’m still too stunned to listen properly. He frees his hands, leans back a bit to sign, “Okay okay?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “What was that?”
“Did you not want me to?”
“I did.” I shift a bit, angle myself so my crossed leg makes a barrier between us. “I... thought I started it.”
His smile crooks to one side. “I’m pretty sureIdid.”
“Don’t taarof with me,” I say, but instead of teasing me more, he leans in and silences me with another kiss. This one slow, and lingering, and sweet.
When he breaks it, he smiles. “Sorry. You’re cute when you’re arguing.”
“I wasn’t...”
He blinks at me.
“We kissed each other.”
“Yeah.”
“So are you... um... I mean...”
“I like you.”
He likes me.
Liam likes me.
My head spins. Can roasted coffee get you high?
“You like me.”
“Yeah. I... do you?”
“Do I what?”
His face is already pink, but somehow it flushes toward crimson.
“Do you like me?”
Do I like him?
I like him so much I can’t get the words out, of my mouth or my hands. So I just nod.
Now it’s my turn to go crimson. My ears and the back of my neck burn. So does my chest, somewhere deep inside, because I like him. And he likes me.
We like each other.
And he dated my sister. The breakup list I made for him—lied about making—is still burning a hole in the back of my binder, inches away from us.
