Chapter Twenty-One
Kingi
I’m twenty-eight, I’ve had my fair share of partners, and I like to think I’m experienced with the opposite sex. But when Chessie kisses me, I’m so stunned that I stand still for a moment, frozen in place.
I know the news that Thea was the one who found her dad after he took his overdose shocked Chessie, and I could see that when she came out of Thea’s room she looked emotional, which didn’t surprise me, because when I took Bearcub in there, she seemed so tiny and fragile in the big bed.
So I hugged her as a friend. I wanted to comfort her. But I didn’t expect her to kiss me.
Alarm bells ring in my head. I can’t take advantage of the fact that she needs comfort right now.
I’d be the worst possible heel if I took this as a sign that she’s interested in more.
Kissing is one thing—it gives a dopamine buzz when we’re down, and it makes us feel good.
There’s nothing wrong with that. But to assume she wants sex would be a big mistake.
She might even mean it. But I have no doubt she’d regret it in the morning, and then we’re two good friends who have this massive wall between us, and that would make me sad.
But I do want to kiss her. So I take her face in my hands, tilt my head a little to the right to change the angle of our lips, and kiss her properly.
I want her to know she’s loved and wanted, and I kiss her tenderly, slowly, stroking her cheeks with my thumbs before moving my hands up to her hair.
It’s in a ponytail, as usual, but I take the elastic in my fingers and slide it down and off her hair, and it falls around her shoulders in a glorious flare of color, like a sunset.
I slip my fingers into it, enjoy the sensual feel of the silky strands on my skin.
At the same time, I tease her tongue with mine, and she returns it a little shyly. The kiss deepens, heat rising between us, and she gives an erotic shudder and a moan that makes the hair rise on the back of my neck.
Steady, Kingi.
I lift my head, and she inhales, her eyelids fluttering before she opens them to look up at me. She blinks, then blushes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Absolutely nothing to be sorry about.” I keep her close to me, and continue to run my fingers through her hair. “You know I’m crazy about you.”
The thing is… it’s true. I’m extremely fond of this girl.
I always have been. Circumstances and life intervened early on to ensure we never got together, but it feels as if we’ve always had a connection, and recently all we’ve done is rekindle it.
I like how down to earth she is. How practical and capable.
And our text conversation proved how much deeper that attraction goes for both of us.
I want her. And somehow, whereas usually my attraction to women is superficial, this feels different because of our friendship.
Her blush deepens. “Oh,” she says.
“We need to talk about that,” I tell her. “But not tonight. It’s been a huge day for both of us, especially for you, and I think we need to let that settle down a bit before we discuss where we go from here. We need to think with our heads, not with our… you know…”
“Groins?”
“I was thinking a little higher than that, but yeah, those too.”
She giggles. Then she says, “I understand.”
I move back and take her hand. “You want a coffee? Or a glass of wine?”
“A coffee would be nice.”
“Come on, then.”
We go into the kitchen and make a coffee, and take them back into the living room with a box of chocolate-dipped shortbread I found in the cupboard that my housekeeper bought for me.
I sit in the corner of the sofa, and this time Chessie sits in the middle.
When I lift my arm, she curls up and snuggles against me, and I lower my arm around her.
We choose another movie, a romcom this time, sip our coffees, and eat the shortbread while we watch.
Halfway through, Chessie goes and checks on Thea and comes back with a smile, saying that Bearcub has curled up in front of her, and Thea’s hand is resting on him.
“She’s sound asleep,” she says, curling up beside me again. “Worn out, no doubt, from all the emotion. I just hope she doesn’t have nightmares.”
“Yeah. Poor girl.”
She rests her head on my shoulder as I unpause the movie. “I hope the hospital can help Mark. The whole situation is just so sad.”
“I’m sure they will. It was a cry for help, and now you know how bad he feels, it can only get better.”
“I hope so.” She sighs.
I slide a finger beneath her chin and lift it so she’s looking up at me. “Try not to worry. Worry is the darkroom where negatives develop.”
She gives a short laugh. “That’s true.” She smiles. “You are a surprisingly wise man. Sometimes.” She wrinkles her nose.
“Cheeky.” My gaze slides to her mouth. Without lipstick, her lips are the same color as her cheeks when she blushes. They look plump and soft. I know how they feel when I kiss her. I want to kiss her again. But I shouldn’t.
They part, and I lift my gaze back to hers. There’s a hint of excitement in them. She wants to kiss me too.
I look back at the TV and don’t say anything, and after a few seconds she rests her cheek on my shoulder.
We sit there like that for a bit. But this time, it’s difficult for me to concentrate on the movie.
I become hyper-conscious of Chessie beside me.
The softness of her body where she’s pressed up against me.
The smell of her perfume, something gentle and flowery, maybe with jasmine, because it reminds me of summer evenings sitting out on the deck.
Her hair is draped over my arm, and it feels like a silk scarf on my skin.
My gaze drifts down. She has so many freckles, small and pale, as if someone has flicked a paintbrush full of light-brown paint over her milky white skin.
I’ve wondered many times if she has them all over her body.
She has them on her face, with a couple venturing onto her upper lip; they’re on her shoulders, arms, legs, and feet.
They’re probably on her breasts and thighs.
And no doubt they’re between her legs, among the red triangle of hair, and down on the soft white skin beneath…
She lifts her gaze to mine. “You’re making me tingle.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
Her lips curve up a little. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, you have to stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
I think about getting on my knees and burying my mouth between her legs, and I’m instantly hard. “Fuck.”
Her eyes glow.
I study her lips, and imagine pressing mine to them, sliding my tongue against hers. I want to do it more than anything… but I shouldn’t.
We sit there in the semi-darkness, with the movie playing softly in the background. Its light falls gently upon us, highlighting her cheekbones, the golden tones in her red hair, the gleam of her soft skin.
“We shouldn’t,” I say helplessly.
“Why not? We’re engaged.” Her eyes dance.
I cup her face, stroking my thumb across her cheek. “You’ve had a terrible shock today. You’re looking for comfort, and that’s understandable and not a problem. But I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and regret it.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” She rests a hand on my chest. “This hasn’t just happened today. My feelings for you have been like a long train journey with lots of stops. This is just the last station on the line.”
She’s right. The journey began many years ago, when we were kids, and innocent of the complications that adulthood relationships would bring.
Back then, we loved each other as friends, a wholehearted, gentle, deep love that I don’t think has ever gone away.
Instead of disappearing with the years, it remained like a plant in the ground that has suddenly seen sunlight and broken through the surface.
Or maybe it’s more like a volcano that’s lain dormant all these years, and now it’s leapt into life, bursting with heat.
Was it always going to end here one day?
I think about when we texted one another, our sexual tension spilling out of us like lava. Then, the thought of being able to do things to her for real was what tipped me over the edge. I wanted her then, and I want her now.
“I don’t want to lose your friendship,” I say desperately, looking at her soft, plump lips.
“Then don’t,” she says simply, and smiles.
She’s implying that we’re in control of our feelings and actions.
I think she’s partly right. Choices appear in front of us, like junctions in the train journey she mentioned, and we are in control of which line we choose.
Except that sometimes our feelings make everything except one track feel impossible.
She looks calm, but her eyes are gleaming in the light from the TV. Excitement makes them sparkle. She wants me.
How am I supposed to say no when her hand is creeping down to the hem of my tee and sliding beneath it? When her lips part as she slips her fingers onto my skin? When her teeth tug her bottom lip as she moves her hand up to brush across my nipples?
I shift on the sofa, turning a little toward her, and then lift her legs so they’re across my lap. She inhales, her eyes widening, and makes herself comfortable in my arms.
Then she lifts her face, and I lower my lips to hers.
We kiss for ages. Soft kisses. Lazy kisses. Exploring every millimeter of each other’s lips and faces.
I press my lips to her cheeks, her temples. Across her brows and forehead. Down her nose. Back to her mouth.
Slowly, I kiss from one corner up over her Cupid’s bow to the other corner, then return to the center of her lips.
Tipping my head to the side, I give her long, chaste kisses, just holding my lips to hers for four or five seconds each time. Then, gradually, I let my tongue join in the fun.