Except the way he looks at me isn’t simple. It doesn’t feel like an offhand comment; it feels like a promise.
We sit in silence for a while, our legs still swinging, the atmosphere comfortable and relaxed rather than awkward or full of tension.
“I keep on thinking about Carmina,” I say finally. “I keep on thinking that I should have been nicer to her.”
Soren sighs. “I know,” he says heavily. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.” Then he looks over at me. “You were always kind to her, though.”
“I was,” I say, “but only to her face.” I swallow, staring absently at a spot on the floor. “I should have talked to her. I should have asked her about herself. I should have made her feel less lonely. Even small talk—little questions about herself. I should have asked her those things.”
When only silence greets me, I look at Soren. His blue eyes are fixed on me, full of something I can’t name.
He slides off the counter and then turns to me, stepping closer, closer, closer—until his hands are resting on either side of me, caging me in, and he’s so close I can see each individual eyelash. My breath stills in my chest, my pulse moving straight from normal to rapid.
“Let me ask you something, Miss Lucy,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Has anyone ever taken the time to askyouthe little questions? Your favorite food, your favorite color, your favorite thing to do?” His hands leave the counter and come up to cradle my face instead; his thumbs stroke my cheekbones, warm trails over my skin that crackle with invisible sparks. “Has anyone ever asked you those things simply because they couldn’t stand not knowing everything about you?”
I swallow thickly. There’s something obstructing my throat, holding my voice hostage, so all I’m able to do is shake my head.
“Mmm,” he says with a slow nod. “I thought so. Tell me, then. What’s your favorite color?”
I can’t believe he’s asking me these things, and I can’t believe Iwanthim to. There’s nothing deep or intimate about colors and foods. And yet…
“Green,” I say, except it’s more of a croak. “My favorite color is green.”
Another nod. “What kind of green?”
“Like the grass after it rains,” I say. I feel like I’m in a trance—I can’t look away from him, can’t even move. All I can do is sit here on this counter, my hands gripping the edge, my knuckles white as an electric buzzing sensation fills my body.
“Like the grass after it rains. Noted,” he says softly, his thumbs continuing their mesmerizing trails over my cheekbones. “And what about your favorite food?”
“Uh,” I say, trying not to get distracted by how close he is or how good he smells. That buzzing feeling is zipping through my limbs, up and down my spine, a current beneath my skin that’s tugging me toward him. “Ice cream, maybe. Or stir fry.”
“I’ll learn how to cook stir fry,” he murmurs, and one hand moves to my hair—stroking gently, tucking it behind my ear. “What else should I learn how to cook?”
The words I’m thinking donotmatch the words that come out of my mouth.
“Kiss me,” I breathe.
It’s truly not what I meant to say, but I don’t take it back. I just move my hands to his sides, tangling my fingers in the fabric of his shirt.
“What?” he says, his eyes sharpening, his hands going still.
Learn how to cook egg-fried rice,my brain says.
“I want you to kiss me,” my mouth says.
“I—are you sure?” he says hoarsely. But his gaze has already dropped to my lips, burning and hungry, and his hands have moved to my jaw. “I can wait, honey. I can always wait.”
“I don’t want you to wait,” I say as that buzzing sensation settles deep in my stomach. Then, as something occurs to me, I add, “Not unless you want to.”
“No,” he says, and his voice breaks. “I don’t want to wait.” He still seems conflicted; his eyes dart over my face, as though he’s searching for any sign that I don’t mean what I’m saying.
And I find, quite suddenly, that I don’t have the patience for that. So I lean in, close my eyes, and press my lips to his.
He freezes in surprise for several long seconds, but I don’t pull away. I stay exactly where I am, my amateur kiss frozen in place.
Until, finally, he gives in.
He tilts his head with a groan, his lips taking charge, slanting over mine. They’re hot, insistent, demanding—and yet somehow he keeps them from becoming overwhelming. He pushes just enough, and when I slide my hands up his chest and then wrap my arms around his neck, he moves his grip from my face to my hips. He pulls me closer, to the very edge of the counter, and I can feel the heat of his hands through the fabric of my shirt.
