21. Chapter 21 #3
Beau traces one hand up to the back of my neck, and pulls his mouth away, resting his forehead against mine.
We’re both panting, though we can’t have been kissing for more than a few seconds.
When I open my eyes, the expression on his face makes me gasp.
His breath ghosts across my lips, cool with spearmint as he murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. ”
For a second it feels like he might pull away, like that moment might be all we get, but I’ve waited a long time, too, and I’m not ready to be done yet. I kiss him; he responds.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, and by all rights, it shouldn’t, for so many reasons. But I can’t bring myself to care. Because Beau is here, kissing me, our bodies pressed together, and my every nerve is alive with the feeling of him.
He gives up trying to hold me still, one hand moving down, brushing over my ass. Sweet. Possessive. Perfect. His touch sends a shiver racing through me.
He pulls back slightly. “Are you—”
“Cold?” I laugh softly against his mouth. There's a fire ripping through me, wild and unchecked, burning through every ounce of restraint I have left. “Not even a little.”
Another laugh slips out of me and lands somewhere between his lips. He pulls back again, scanning my face as if trying to read what just happened.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, our bodies still pressed together.
“I was just thinking that this is so fucking cliché,” I say, waving at our surroundings. “Our first kiss, on a moonlit bridge, Christmas lights all around. It’s like a scene from a cheesy televised holiday film.”
Beau chuckles. “I love those movies.” He dips in and presses a quick kiss to my mouth. “And yes”—he brushes his nose against mine—“that’s exactly what this feels like.”
“Though I’m not as attractive as the male leads they usually cast in those movies.”
His expression changes in a flash, now bordering on anger. His hand moves up from my neck and grabs a fistful of my hair, firmly but not harshly, but enough that I have no choice but to meet his eyes. “Torin, you’re fucking beautiful.”
The intensity in his voice and gaze shows a level of protectiveness that makes my breath catch. Before I can even think of a response, he’s kissing me again, and fuck, it’s better than ever.
The restraint from earlier disappears completely as his mouth claims mine, his body pressing me back against the railing.
When his hips grind against mine, we both groan at the contact, the friction sending a surge of heat through me.
My hands clutch at him, dragging him closer even though there’s no space left between us.
Time passes, stars wheel overhead, and I take no notice of anything but Beau, the feel of him against me, his mouth on mine, his hands exploring my body. Any inhibitions I had about whether this could or should happen are left behind.
I want it to be like this forever, locked in Beau’s embrace, hungry for each other.
But after a few more beautiful seconds, his hands are on either side of my neck and jaw, his kisses becoming more purposeful, more tender, giving me one final, lingering kiss before pulling back, our eyes fluttering open, breaths ragged.
His eyes search mine again. I search back, reeling from what just happened.
His hands go to my shoulders, holding me in place as he takes the slightest step back.
Even this small distance makes me worry that I did something wrong or that he regrets kissing me, but I’m unable to form words to ask him.
“Let’s get you home,” he says, his voice husky.
There’s a sting of disappointment because I’m sure this will never happen again; he’s come to his senses and realized he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want me.
Then he laces his fingers through mine and gently pulls me with him as he turns back down the path, and I follow in a daze until we fall into step side by side, our joined hands swinging slightly between us as we walk beneath the glow of the Christmas lights.
Beau—the man I’ve wanted since the day we met, the one I convinced myself I could never truly have—is walking beside me, his hand warm around mine.
Even when I treated him like my competition, even when I tried to bury those feelings beneath rivalry and pride, a small part of me never stopped dreaming about what could be.
What it would be like to feel his arms around me, his lips pressed against mine.
Now I know. And it was better than I ever imagined.
The quiet walk back to the car park gives my mind too much space to wander. Was our kiss only a passing moment, something sparked by the night and the closeness of the day we shared? Will it happen again?
But as the rush of it slowly fades, my attention keeps returning to his thumb brushing absently across my knuckles.
Kissing Beau had been hot, sensual, overwhelming in the best possible way, but holding his hand feels quieter and somehow more meaningful. I’ve kissed plenty of men before, including the occasional stranger at a bar, but there are very few I’ve held hands with.
You kiss to show attraction; you hold hands to show affection. In one beautiful night, Beau has shown me both.
I have no idea what he’s thinking. What I do know is that I am falling for him.
And given my recent romantic past, I am more terrified than ever.