43. Forty
Forty
Eden
Cecil looks like he’s seen a ghost, but I don’t regret my words. Logically, it makes sense. If he can’t kiss me, he must not think I’m as beautiful as he claims. And maybe, somewhere deep inside me, I wonder what it would be like if he did.
With each rise and fall of our chests, our bodies brush for a fraction of a second. I tremble, though I’m burning.
“Eden…” He says my name on a sigh, and I deflate a little. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
He puts some space between our bodies, and embarrassment takes his place.
“It just isn’t.”
“Sylvie is mean to you and you kiss her.”
I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but there’s a flash of shame on his face when I mention Sylvie. Then, a terrifying thought pops into my head.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
Taken aback, he scoffs out a “no”.
“Then why?”
Bringing his hands to his face, he scrubs the rain from his eyes, speaking between his fingers.
“I should hardly be your first kiss.”
Now it’s my turn to scoff. That earns me a look.
“You wouldn’t be.”
Cecil narrows his eyes in suspicion, his jaw ticking. “Who?”
I hesitate for only a moment before throwing caution to the wind. “Creed.”
His eyes nearly bug out of his head. He opens and closes his mouth once, twice, three times before he’s able to speak.
“When!?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “A while ago. It was… strange.”
This does little to comfort him as he continues to eye me apprehensively. My resolve slips, defeat creeping in. I take his hand in my own while my other pleads against my chest.
He lets out a sigh, eyeing our joined hands. Water follows the crooked bridge of his nose, dripping from the tip. Another shudder wracks through my body.
“Eden, I can’t.” It comes out as an apology, and that stings even worse. I don’t want his pity. Frustrated, I switch tactics. Stepping close, I reach up, fisting his shirt and pressing to my tiptoes.
Our faces are close now.
I gaze at him imploringly, my eyes meeting his lips. The rain has flattened his hair down onto his forehead, making him appear less severe. For the first time since I’ve met him, it feels like we’re equals.
“I can’t,” he repeats roughly.
“Please.” The hushed sound of my voice has his body stiffening.
In theory, I should feel ashamed to beg for a kiss. After all I’ve endured, and all others have endured because of me, it’s such a trivial thing.
But I’m so tired of feeling… void. Fear, sadness, or this all consuming emptiness. Even when I’m happy, it feels hollow. Like it might float away, with no weight to anchor to my soul.
This is the first time I can remember ever really wanting something. No, not wanting. Craving.
The pressure of a hand above my hip sends tingles skipping across my bones.
“You don’t understand.” He sounds pained, and his grip tightens. I hope it leaves a mark, so I might look to it tomorrow for proof that I didn’t dream this.
Despite his words, his face inches closer to mine. If my heart had wings, I think it would fly right out of my chest and reach the moon by morning.
His other hand rises, cupping my jaw. With his thumb, he delicately wipes some of the rainwater along my lips. Maintaining eye contact, I pucker my lips and press a small kiss to the tip of his thumb.
A sound between a groan and a whimper gets trapped in his throat.
It makes my knees weak, and I lean further into his body.
I can smell the cinnamon and smoke on his breath.
Allowing my eyes to flutter shut, I brace myself for the contact.
Already, it’s worlds apart from the kiss I shared with Creed.
Cold fingers close around my chin, holding me still. The rain is long forgotten, and all I’m aware of is his touch and the pounding of my heart. It could be seconds or minutes, but finally, I feel breath against my mouth.
I stop breathing altogether.
Velvety warmth presses against the very corner of my mouth. I attempt to angle my head, but his grip on me tightens, preventing me from moving even an inch.
The kiss, if you can consider it one, only lasts a few seconds, and then his voice is at my ear. The stubble of facial hair tickles against my skin. I yearn to feel it against my palms.
“You’re not the monster, Eden, it’s me,” he murmurs. His palm slides down until it’s pressed to the front of my throat. “If I get a taste, I’ll make a meal out of you.”