He twists toward me, still holding my hand, fingers twined. His other hand reaches up, and his palm is large and rough on my cheek. His thumb brushes over my lips.
“This.”
And
He
Kisses
Me.
I have no breath—his kiss steals it. This isn’t a quick, dry peck, like a grandma kiss except on my lips.
It’s akiss.
He means it.
His lips soar against mine, and he holds my face in his hands as if to prevent me from pulling away—as if I would.
And he doesn’t stop after a beat.
Oh, no.
He keeps kissing me.
My eyes are closed and my free hand lifts on its own, touches his jaw—it’s hard, angular, stubbled. I whimper in the kiss, a sound of ecstatic disbelief, and the whimper becomes a sigh as his tongue slithers over my lips, asking them to open, and they do. His head tilts the other way, the kiss breaking for an instant as our noses trade places, and then I’m leaning into him and my hand wraps around the back of his neck and I kiss him.
I’ve never done this before, but somehow I justknowwhat to do. Something inside me just takes over. Kissing Westley Britton is the most natural thing in the world. My heart thunders in my chest, my pulse hammers in my throat. He tastes like coffee. His tongue moves against mine, delicious and strong and insistent.
This isn’t a pity kiss. He’s not kissing the cancer girl to humor her desperation.
He’s kissing me, a boy kissing a girl.
When it finally breaks, Westley pulls away, hand still on my cheek. “You are an amazing kisser, Jo.”
I blush. “I think it’s you. I was just following along.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s you. One person being good at kissing doesn’t mean the kiss is going to be good.” He delves in, kisses me again, and heartbeats pass in an instant as our lips touch and tongues tangle. “That’s called chemistry, Jo. You and I have it.”
“We do?”
He rests his forehead on mine. “We do. I wasn’t expecting that, honestly.” He runs his hands over my hair, dimples his fingertips in the valley between the tendons at the back of my neck. “You want to know the truth of why I’m here?”
I nod. “I really, really do.”
“I have no clue. None. It was instinct, impulse. I saw your TikTok and just knew I had to…I had to come see you. I had no clue whatsoever what I was going to do or say once I got here.” He huffs a laugh. “My agent and my manager didn’t want me to come. They tried to literally, physically stop me.”
“But you justhadto come see me?” I sound skeptical.
We’re huddled together, intimately close. Hands in hands. Noses millimeters apart. Foreheads touching. I’m barely breathing, in case breathing too deeply would pop the soap bubble of this impossible, fantastical moment.
He nods. “Yeah, I had to.”
“And now that you’re here?”
“Now that I’m here…” He breathes out, and his breath sounds shaky. “You did something that is, by any standard, crazy.” He speaks over my sound of protest. “And I’m about to do something even crazier.”
My heartbeat is the loudest thing in the world. “Crazier than kissing the dying girl you just met?”
