“I hate you,” I manage through my tighteningthroat.
“Oh, I don’t believethat.”
There’s so much I want to say to him right now, but all I do is huff and go limp over his shoulder, defeated. No matter if he puts me down now or not, I’m on thebridge.
“You don’t understand what no means, doyou?”
“Only when it’simportant.”
I decide it’s best if I just keep my eyes closed and pretend we’re anywhere but right here, so I do just that until I hear a fit of laughter. When I open my eyes, I see a group of teenagers amble past, pointing and snickering. I grin and wave. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a dick,” Iwhisper.
“Countless times.” The pride in his tone isevident.
“I bet all these people think you’re some misogynistic asshole who’s carting a poor woman over a bridge of death against herwill.”
“Bridgeofdeath?” His shoulders rise and fall with a chuckle. “Unnecessarily overdramatic, don’t youthink?”
“Oh, and you’re one to call someone unnecessarily overdramatic? If you ask me,this,” I pinch his back, “is a littleoverdramatic.”
“No, this is entertaining. At least forme.”
After a few more steps, he shifts my weight, pulling me from his shoulder and placing my feet on the bridge. I close my eyes while I instinctively grip his arms to ward off the vertigo swirling through my head. His hands move to my waist, and as irrational as it is, it feels as though his hold is the only thing keeping mesteady.
“Now, the question is,” he grabs my chin, and I open my eyes. “What are you going to do?” The lights from the bridge glow behind him while fear pummels me at lightningspeed.
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” I shrug a shoulder. “I have to walk to theend.”
“How does that make you feel?” His thumb grazes myjaw.
My legs shake beneath me and I hold on tighter to him, concentrating on his face, his eyes and lips, because if I focus on anything but him, I’m going to lose it. “Terrified.”
But I also feel vulnerable andstupid.
He slowly inches his face to mine. “I want you to feel something different.” There’s a pause, a moment where he doesn’t budge. It’s just us and this bridge and my frantic heartbeats, and then his warm mouth touches mine. His tongue parts my lips while his hand glides to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair as he yanks my body close in a possessivehold.
The sensation of fear dissipates. With each sweep of his tongue, it feels as though he plucks something from my soul. Something he intends to keep forever. The reverence in this kiss makes me painfully aware of how wrong every one before him has been and how wrong every one after him will be. It’s only been two dates, but there’s already this connection, like threads of a spider’s web I’m destined to become ensnaredby.
“There’s just something about you,” he whispers when he breaks the kiss. “Something that makes me feelgood.”
And then he takes my hand, and we walk the bridgetogether.
I feel safe with him. Even in the places that cause meunrest.
Andthatis trulyterrifying.
_____
After we leave the bridge, we stroll along the bank of Pebble Beach still hand in hand. A barge chugs along the water, blaring its horn, and the whimsical music from Jane’s Carousel floats softly in the background. This night has been intimate in a way that’s not easy for me. Touches. Thoughtfulness. The raw chemistry that dances between us is like a flickering flame that threatens to consumeme.
Elijah Banks is a category-5 hurricane, one you stand on the shore and watch roll in. You wait for the waves to strike and drag you out into a tumultuous sea. And now, here I am, justwaiting.
“You’re being quiet,” he says. “What are you thinkingabout?”
“Hurricanes.”
“For a woman who hates surprises, you sure are full ofthem.”
Stopping in front of a bench, Igrin.
