When she shakes her head, I plead, “At least think about it?”
“Think about it?” She lurches up from the car, eyes wild. “You would not fucking believe how much I think about it! It’s all I’ve thought about for weeks! I’ve tried before, Sebastian. It never ends well.”
Determined, I argue, “You’ve never tried with me. Maybe I’m different. Maybe that’s why I can kiss you and touch your hair. If I made it worse, then it’s fluid. Maybe I can make it better, too.”
Softly, she says, “You can’t fix me.”
“Not if you don’t let me try.”
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, burying her face in her palms. “You’re like a fucking dog with a bone.” Her hands fall, slapping loudly against her thighs, and she’s got this look on her face. Like she just tasted something bad but she’s about to go in for another bite. “You know what? Fine.”
18
Sugar
“Fine.”
His jaw, which has been tight with frustration, eases as he asks, “What? Really?”
“Yes, really,” I agree, holding my arms out wide, smile tight. “Let’s do this. Where do you want it? Up my shirt?”
He looks taken aback. “I was just thinking like… little touches, on the reg. It doesn’t have to be one big thing.”
Jesus, the thought is horrifying. Not that Sebastian wants to touch me regularly, but that I’d have to feel the repercussions of it so often. “You want a shot to prove yourself, then let’s go for it.”
He shuffles around for a second, and if it weren’t because he’s about to put his hands on me, it’d almost be cute—Sebastian looking all bashful and shifty, like a kid about to shoplift for the first time. “Uh. Okay.”
I hadn’t been joking about him going up my shirt. I figure that’s what this is all about, anyway. A guy like Sebastian is used to being with girls he can fool around with. Touch, to him, is probably just about sex. Makes no difference to me. A touch is a touch. The result is always the same.
He finally steps up to me, and it’s cold out here—colder by the second as the sun sets—but he doesn’t even have a single goosebump. His eyes stay fixed to mine as he lifts a hand, reluctantly nudging a curled finger beneath my chin. That’s not so bad, just the soft pressure of a knuckle. I swallow in response, but it doesn’t make my chest feel like it’s imploding in fear. Bolstered by this, he ducks his head to press our mouths together, thumb sweeping out to graze the edge of my jaw. I push back against a flinch, surging into the kiss instead. Distantly, I’m going to miss this being enough for him. Just the warm press of our mouths, the way our tongues slide wetly, how we breathe one another, taste one another.
It was nice while it lasted.
His other hand dips into his jacket, still hanging absurdly from my small frame, and gently—so carefully that I’m already regretting what’s going to happen—slides around my waist.
He never stops kissing me, which is good, because if he weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to pretend. I can almost hide the way my body stiffens, have gotten used to clamping down on the tremors, biting back the gasp. He falters, but doesn’t stop, pressing my body to his as he palms my lower back in an embrace.
I can’t remember the last time someone tried to hold me like this, but my body’s reaction is an old, familiar thing. I barely get to enjoy the warmth of his chest, the way his arms feel, swallowing me up, shoulders curved into me like a shield, before it happens.
I try so hard to hide it, to kiss back and force this to be tolerable. My lungs are on fire, head screaming. It’s all I can do to take myself out of the moment, to crawl back to the safe, isolated place in my mind that watches but isn’t a part of it. I don’t touch him back, because I know he’d feel the way my hands shake, aching to both push him away and drag him closer.
He doesn’t notice.
If anything, the kiss and the way I’m taking it, just works him up more. The hand on my jaw goes from gently caressing the skin there to cupping the side of my neck, fingertips pressing firmly into the hard tendon and fluttering skin. He makes this rough, excited groan, hands pushing me closer, capturing me, trapping me, clutching me.