“Sure it is.” But I love how he knows what I’m thinking.
“Come on.” He stands and offers his hand. I take it, and he helps me up. I expect him to drop it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leads me to a safe spot
away from the pool.
It’s nice holding hands. Comfortable.
I wish friends held hands more often, like the children I see on the streets sometimes. I’m not sure why we have to grow up and get embarrassed about
it. We sit in the grass underneath a canopy of pink blossoms. I glance around for the Grass Police in their little conductor hats, always eager to remove citizens from the lawns, but I don’t see them. Étienne is a good-luck charm when it comes to this sort of thing. My hair drips through the back of my shirt but, somehow, it’s not so bad right now.
We are stil holding hands.
Okay, we should let go. This is the point where it would be normal to let go.
Why aren’t we letting go?
I force my gaze to the Grand Bassin. He does the same.We’re not watching the boats. His hand is burning, but he doesn’t let go. And then—he scoots
closer. Just barely. I glance down and see the back of his shirt has crawled up, exposing a slice of his back. His skin is smooth and pale.
It’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
He shifts again, and my body answers with the same. We’re arm against arm, leg against leg. His hand crushes mine, will ing me to look at him.
I do.
Étienne’s dark eyes search mine. “What are we doing?” His voice is strained.
He’s so beautiful, so perfect. I’m dizzy. My heart pounds, my pulse races. I tilt my face toward his, and he answers with an identical slow tilt toward mine.
He closes his eyes. Our lips brush lightly.
“If you ask me to kiss you, I will ,” he says.
His fingers stroke the inside of my wrists, and I burst into flames.
“Kiss me,” I say.
He does.
We are kissing like crazy. Like our lives depend on it. His tongue slips inside my mouth, gentle but demanding, and it’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced, and I suddenly understand why people describe kissing as melting because every square inch of my body dissolves into his. My fingers grip his hair,
pul ing him closer. My veins throb and my heart explodes. I have never wanted anyone like this before. Ever.
He pushes me backward and we’re lying down, making out in front of the children with their red bal oons and the old men with their chess sets and the
tourists with their laminated maps and I don’t care, I don’t care about any of that.
Al I want is Étienne.
The weight of his body on top of mine is extraordinary. I feel him—al of him—pressed against me, and I inhale his shaving cream, his shampoo, and
that extra scent that’s just . . . him. The most delicious smel I could ever imagine.
I want to breathe him, lick him, eat him, drink him. His lips taste like honey. His face has the slightest bit of stubble and it rubs my skin but I don’t care, I don’t care at all. He feels wonderful. His hands are everywhere, and it doesn’t matter that his mouth is already on top of mine, I want him closer closer closer.
And then he stops. Instinct. His body is rigid.