The kiss deepens. His fingers tighten in my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head, and I gasp against his mouth. He takes advantage immediately, and suddenly I’m learning what it feels like to be kissed by someone who actually knows how to kiss. His other hand finds my chin. As his thumb grazes the underside of my bottom lip, we both groan as his tongue slides right in to explore as he pleases.
I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe. If I knew how, I’d be panting from the heat pouring in and engulfing me.
A dog barks somewhere nearby. Close enough to remind us both where we are.
We break apart, left staring at each other in shock that the kiss really happened. His breath is as unsteady as mine, and the hunger I saw moments ago has now turned into something that makes me feel like this man could devour me right on the spot.
If I asked him to, he would, wouldn’t he?
“That was—” I swallow, trying to find the words to admit. “That was my first kiss.”
The sound he makes is low in his throat. Something between a curse and a growl. “Your first?”
I nod, cheeks burning. Now he should know that I’m a virgin. If that’s something worth turning him off, then he shouldn’t look so freaking pleased with himself.
His thumb strokes my neck again, softer now. “Did you like it?”
I nod again, biting my lip and still feeling his against mine. “I liked it a lot.”
Enough that I want to do it again and again until I lose feeling in my lips. I don’t want only a few seconds of contact, but minutes. Heck,hours.
“Did you?”
He rumbles his response, another low growl that does funny little things to me.
“I did.” Something flickers in his expression—satisfaction, maybe, or hunger renewed. “We should wrap up. I need to get you back.”
Why does it sound like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything?
Nodding my head, I try my best at containing my smile, but it feels impossible. Feeling giddy, I don’t think about saying goodbye as I finish my lunch. I’m too busy thinking about what I have to do to get another kiss from him.
The drive back is agony. Not because of anything he does—he keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us, close enough that I could reach for it if I dared. But my body is humming, every nerve ending awake and aching, and I’m squirming in my seat without meaning to. Crossing and uncrossing my legs. Pressing my thighs together.
I’m the worst person to try to hide how I’m feeling, and being aroused isn’t changing that at all.
I want to invite him to the part of the mountain where I stay. Want to drag him somewhere I can kiss him without anyone interrupting. The words form on my tongue, hovering there, waiting.
But when we park next to my car, I chicken out. I’m brave enough for a lot of things, but inviting him home? That’s a different kind of terrifying.
Instead, I grab my phone from my bag. “Could I have your number? So I can text you about—” About nothing. About everything. “—next time.”
He rattles it off. I type it in, fingers shaking slightly, and send a quick text so he has mine too.
“See you next Saturday?” The question comes out hopeful. Pathetic. I don’t care.
He nods. Then, before I can open the door, his hand catches my chin—gentle, but firm.
“Thank you for lunch.”
I open my mouth to remind him that he paid, that he drove, that he has nothing to thank me for—
He kisses me again. Quicker this time, but no less devastating. No less dizzying. When he pulls back, I’m gripping the door handle for support.
“Next Saturday.”
I somehow make it to my car. Somehow drive home. But all I can think about is the way he said it—like a promise. Like a countdown.
Six days.
