16. Kai
Sixteen
Kai
I’m not a virgin.
Not by a long shot.
Not since I was fifteen and made out with Kelly Bentley behind the bleachers after Homecoming freshman year.
That had been awkward.
Fast.
A complete disaster.
But somehow perfect in the way first times are supposed to be.
It's been a hell of a long time since then.
A lot of years.
A lot of women.
A lot of mistakes.
Yet, somehow, sitting here on Mary's bed beneath a canopy of fairy lights, I feel every bit as nervous as that kid all over again.
Maybe worse.
Because this matters.
She matters.
She wasn’t supposed to matter.
The room is dim except for the soft golden glow overhead.
The pink patchwork quilt is bunched beneath us.
Her perfume lingers in the air.
Something floral.
Something warm.
Something that is quickly becoming my favorite scent on earth.
Mary is stretched out beneath me.
Her red hair spread across the pillow.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her eyes bright.
And every time she looks at me like that, something possessive and dangerous unfurls inside my chest.
Jesus.
I want her.
All of her.
I want everything.
Not just tonight.
Not just this.
I want Sunday mornings.
I want coffee before work.
I want arguments over movies and takeout.
I want to be the guy she comes to when she's had a bad day.
I want every version of her.
And I finally see why the guys I work with, like Noel and Less, even my own twin brother, Ego, fell as hard as they did when the right woman came along.
That realization should probably scare me.
Instead, it makes me want to hold her tighter.
“Mary?”
The sound of my own voice barely registers over the pounding of my heart.
“Yeah?”
God.
The way she looks at me.
The way she's looking at me right now could bring a stronger man to his knees.
A shy smile touches her lips.
And suddenly I can't remember a damn thing I was about to say.
“You're staring,” she whispers.
“I know.”
And I am.
Because we're stretched out across her bed beneath a canopy of fairy lights.
Because her hair is spread across the pillow like a halo of fire.
Because she's looking at me like she trusts me.
Like she wants me here.
Like she chose me.
And that last one?
That one wrecks me.
Completely.
Her hand slides into mine.
The gesture should be simple.
Instead, it feels intimate as hell.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
Too much.
Way too much.
I brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear and let my fingers linger against her cheek.
Because I can't seem to stop touching her.
Every touch feels important.
Like I'm memorizing her.
“I'm thinking you're beautiful.”
Her eyes immediately close.
And I hate that.
Not because she's embarrassed.
Because she still doesn't see herself the way I do.
“Hey.”
“Kai...”
“No.”
I tip her chin gently upward.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, she does.
And Christ.
The vulnerability there nearly splits me open.
For all her sass.
For all her fire.
For all the ways she pretends to be tougher than she is.
There's still a part of her that doesn't quite believe she's enough.
The thought makes something protective rise up inside me.
“You're beautiful.”
My voice comes out rough.
Certain.
“Smart.”
Her breath catches.
“Funny.”
“Kai—”
“Fierce as hell.”
A smile starts pulling at her mouth.
I keep going.
“Stubborn.”
“I am not.”
I laugh.
“Firecracker, you absolutely are.”
That earns me a tiny shove.
Worth it.
Every time.
“You care about everybody,” I continue quietly. “Your students. Your mom. Your school. Everybody gets a piece of you.”
Her eyes soften.
“But nobody seems to take care of you.”
The room goes still.
The words hanging there between us.
And suddenly I know I've hit something important.
Something real.
“Kai...”
“So, yeah.”
I shrug.
Trying to play it off.
Failing miserably.
“I think you're pretty damn incredible. And me? I’m the lucky guy taking care of you right now.”
The look she gives me after that?
I'm done for.
Absolutely done for.
Her fingers curl around my shoulders.
Holding on.
Not tightly.
Just enough.
Like she needs the connection as much as I do.
Trust.
That's what this is.
Not lust.
Not just attraction.
Trust.
And God help me, that means more than anything.
“I think those pants look pretty uncomfortable,” she whispers, her eyes lighting up mischievously.
“Mine or yours?” I ask, my heart pounding like a runaway train.
“Both,” she whispers, and her hands are on my fly.
Fuck. Me.
I move fast.
I stand up and unzip my jeans the rest of the way.
Then I push them down, boxer briefs, too.
Mary is leaning on her elbows in her bra and unzipped pants. Her lips are parted and her pupils are blown as she stares at my body.
“See something you like?” I ask, and palm myself.
Her eyes go even wider as she nods her head.
“Now, you,” I growl and stalk over to her, grabbing her pants by the waistband with more reverence than I’ve ever shown any other human.
I freeze, my gaze is locked on the patch of auburn curls I can see through her pretty pink panties.
Holy. Fuck.
Are we really doing this?
Is the curvy little schoolteacher really gonna let me have her?
I really fucking hope so.
In fact, right now, I’m pretty certain I’d do any number of things to get her to say yes.
And that makes me pause because this isn’t some wham bam one night stand—not to me.
And I think I have to make sure she knows it.