soft, soft mouth, and something pings inside my chest, hard.
Slowly, she puts her hands on mine, light as, I don’t know, butterflies landing on flowers or something. They’re weightless, but warm. And just this barely there contact feels good. It’s all I can do not to squeeze her, wrap her up, protect her from the shitty world.
I wait, breath held.
There’s hardly any pressure; just that heat, until she lightly drags her palms back, putting our fingertips together, finally leaving our middle fingers to latch like hooks. It’s the weirdest, softest, sweetest thing I’ve experienced in ages and it’s twisted something in my chest.
I flick a glance up to her face to find it hidden behind a puff of messy brown hair. But I need to see her—confirmation that what I’m doing is okay. Because, hell, she’s got to be a virgin—that’s what the never been kissed thing means. I’m at least a decade older than her. Probably two. She’s little and soft. I might break her.
“Tilt your head back,” I whisper, instead of letting her go like I should. “Let me look at your face.”
Her mouth’s glistening, bottom lip indented for a second as though she’s been biting it and I have to shove back a wave of ridiculous jealousy that I’m not the one doing the biting.
Nobody’s getting bitten tonight. That’s not what this is about. It’s not about me being a horny bastard whose been hungering for my twenty-something virgin neighbor since she moved in six months ago. And she is cute, man. But no. This is about making sure her first kiss isn’t some shitty mauling on her front porch.
One of her hooked fingers tugs at mine. I let her drag me closer, flashing back to the first time I saw her, cleaning this porch, with her long hair and long skirts and long pauses before talking, like she’s thinking things through before letting them out. She smiled that day and I couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. I headed off to work, wondering if there was a husband or boyfriend inside.
There’s no reason that exchange should come back—or my response to her. Nothing happened that day beyond a Nice to meet you, neighbor. Well, and that stupid stab of curiosity. Fuck it—envy.
The fact is, there’s something almost magic in the way I respond to her after so many years of feeling nothing.
“Will you do it?”
I blink back down at her face.
“Will you kiss me? Will you show me how it’s done?”
My inner cynic’s laughing his ass off. Where do I get off thinking I know a goddamn thing about women? With a track record like mine, this is the last thing I should be doing. And, yet…
Of all the pricks she’s brought back after what seems like an endless string of dates, not one recognized how precious she is. Not one.
I do. I saw it that first goddamn day.
Guess that’s enough for my conscience to give me the green light.
“Come here.” I lean down, taking care not to touch her any more than I already am. I’m a bruiser. Doesn’t mean I have to break what I touch. I get another flare of guilt at the reality—that I hurt a lot of people in my past life.
Not anymore. Not her.
Her breath’s warm and smells like spices. Her exhales are kind of stuttery and, though it’s ridiculous, especially considering the differences in our ages and sizes and histories, I like that I’ve managed to do that to her. She didn’t seem jittery with that other guy. Just annoyed.
My hands itch to slide into that mass of hair and hold her still, but that’s the last thing this woman needs. I rein that in and brush my nose against hers. Just a touch, but even that changes her breathing and, hell, my own.
I sense her mouth before I touch it—a sweet warmth that I’d dive into if I didn’t have such a tight leash on myself.
And then it’s too much, the denial, the way her breathing’s picked up, the sway of her body toward mine. I let my lips land on hers. The contact practically sizzles.
My cock’s heavy and warm and I haven’t even tasted her yet. But I want to, dammit. I’d gladly trade a week’s worth of food for a chance to get to know every inch of her skin.
Her head tilts, her plush mouth opens, her little tongue touches my lip and I’m gone.
Fuck me, I’m lost.
Jerusha
This is nothing like that other kiss—which wasn’t a