touch
him
Kit touches me. He reaches out with a tanned finger and runs it along my cheekbone. I shiver involuntarily.
“When the light hits you right here, you look…”
“What?” I ask. I’m all coiled up on the inside. Waiting for him to give me permission to spring.
He sighs and looks away.
“Do you really want me to say it? When I try to tell you things you get upset.”
“Because I’m not sure what you’re doing or what you want,” I tell him.
“We’re hanging out and getting to know each other.”
“Like pals?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
“Really? No funny business.”
“I don’t know what funny business is. I can ask my grandma; she says that sometimes.”
I sniff. Kit shakes his head. “I’m okay with just being near you for now.”
How can words like that not exercise your heart? I breathe through my nose. All the things I’m feeling are so wrong, but I don’t know how to stop them. Maybe I shouldn’t be beige.
“Because you’re such a disciplined person?” I ask quickly. “And you can keep things strictly buddy-buddy?”
Kit cocks his head and looks at me through narrowed eyes.
“Yes, yes I can.”
“Would you like to put that to the test?” My throat is dry, but I say it anyway.
Kit’s light eyes are watching me carefully. The beauty of them gives me courage—the desire to own those eyes.
“What did you have in mind?” he asks.
“Go sit on the couch and close your eyes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Kit,” I say, pointing to my face. “This is my serious face. Now, do you want to do this or not?”
He does what I ask, walking over to the couch, and then closing his eyes. Now that he’s not looking at me I can freak out a little. I fill my cheeks with air, bulge my eyes out, and mouth the word fuck, before I take a step forward.
Hey, hey Helena, gotta finish what you started.
I climb onto his lap until I’m straddling him. He doesn’t open his eyes, but they stretch in surprise behind his eyelids.
“Don’t open,” I say. “Or you lose.”
His hands immediately come up to my waist. “I’m not sure if there’s a way to lose when there’s a woman straddling you,” he says.
“Shh,” I tell him. My cheeks are so hot you could probably fry an egg on them.
I look at his hair, then his eyes, then his lips. His hands are holding my hips; this is probably the most physical contact I’ve ever had with him. If he were to open his eyes and see my face, this would all fall apart. Correction: I would fall apart. I’m barely able to concentrate. God, what is he? A human oven? I clear my throat and lean toward his ear.
“Whatever you do, Kit Isley,” I say softly, “do not kiss me.”
I want to laugh at the way his Adam’s apple suddenly bobs in his throat. This is crazy.
You’re such a fucking badass, Helena, I tell myself. You could fucking house small rodents in your topknot. Besides the point.
I focus and lean toward his face. The luxury is that I don’t have to close my eyes, and I can look at him all I want. I can touch him if I want, to; these are my rules. Bringing my hand up, I trace the line from his ear to the slight cleft in his chin. He gets goosebumps; they scatter across his tanned forearms. Encouraged, I lean forward more and kiss the corner of his mouth. Very softly. Very slowly. I breathe him in as I do it, and his body stiffens. “Be disciplined, Kit,” I whisper. “You cannot kiss me.” My eyes flutter when I pull away slightly to move to the other side of his mouth. This is harder than I thought. It’s making me dizzy. I kiss him again, and I can feel him swallow. I move to his lower lip next, taking it between my lips and tugging a little. Then I pull back and look at him. The crease between his eyebrows is deep. A slash of concentration. He’s working hard. I wrap my hands around the back of his head and tilt his head up as I come up on my knees. His hands are on the back of my thighs--hot, hot, hot. Then I lower my mouth to his, brushing my open mouth against his, pulling away, brushing, nip, pull back. I use my tongue to taunt him, licking just along the inside of his lips.
This is my first real experience with sexual tension, and I can barely catch my breath. God, he tastes like he looks. I kiss him full on, just press my mouth against his. The deep sigh just slips out.
I suddenly feel his hand on the back of my neck. Fucking oven hands!
And that’s my last thought. He traps me at his mouth, pulls me flat onto his lap, and kisses me so deeply that I whimper into his mouth. Lank, drunk, dizzy, glassy-eyed: my body is so ready for anything he wants to do to it that I feel ashamed. I pull away from his mouth and his hands, and stumble off his lap. I back up as far as the room will let me go, bumping into the wall. I want to hug the wall, or for the wall to hug me.
“Fuck that,” I say in his general direction. “You have no discipline.” My shirt is hanging off my shoulder, and my topknot is sloping left. He leans over, still sitting on the couch, and puts his face in his hands.
“That’s not true. I’d like a do-over.”
I cackle, and reach up to cover my mouth, trapping the rest of my laugh behind my hand. Kit leans back when he hears my laugh, and smiles.
“Come here, Helena,” he says. He reaches his hand toward me. I go to him. Maybe I run. Probably not, though, because that’s not cool.