I look at Cristiano’s mouth, wondering how it would feel on mine, and whether he would taste like the summer heat.
“Just practice,” I whisper. “That’s all.”
“That’s all.”
“And you won’t tell anyone.”
“Never.”
“And it won’t be weird after.”
“It won’t be weird.” His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “I promise.”
His eyes are so close I can see the gold flecks among the amber. His breath is warm on my lips.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He kisses me.
Soft at first. Gentle. His lips barely brush mine, like a question.
Then I lean in, and he makes a sound low in his throat, and suddenly the kiss is something else entirely.
His hand slides into my hair. My fingers grip his shirt. He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, and I forget how to breathe and think. I forget everything except the warmth of his mouth and the way my whole body feels like it’s dissolving into light.
Thisis what the plays are about. The poetry. The madness.
When we break apart, I’m trembling. My lips are tingling. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it.
Cristiano’s eyes are dark and intense. He’s looking at me like I’m precious, like he never wants to let me go.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine. I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against his chest. My hands find his broad shoulders, his neck, the soft curls at the nape.
He groans, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through my whole body.
We sink back onto the grass, tangled together. His hands are in my hair, on my waist, skimming the curve of my hip. Every touch sends sparks across my skin. I’ve never felt anything like this. This desperate need to be closer, closer, closer.
“Mina,” he breathes against my mouth, and the sound of my name in his deep voice makes me tremble.
We kiss until my lips are swollen and my body is humming and the sun has turned the sky to gold and pink.
I pull back, breathless, and realize with a thump of panic that we’ve been here far too long. “I have to go. Mom will be looking for me.”
Cristiano’s arms tighten around me. “Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Stay.” His voice is rough. Almost desperate. “Just a little longer.”
“Cristiano—”
“Please.” His eyes search my face, his expression raw and almost frightening in its intensity. “Don’t go yet.”
His grip tightens until I can feel each finger pressing into my back, like he’s afraid I’ll dissolve if he loosens his grip.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say gently, touching his face.
His jaw tightens. For a crazy moment, I think he won’t let go.
