Chapter Twelve #3
I don’t remember when I started laughing. Blame the drinks. “My game is also based on one of my D his eyes snag on the movement. “The irony is not lost on me.”
“Let me at least guess what kind of game you’re making.”
I shrug again, just to tease him, promising nothing.
Eager for the challenge, Wesley pushes himself off the wall and stands with his arms crossed over his chest, suddenly shot with energy. “It’s not a racing game, or sports. Those aren’t your style, and they’re hardly fitting for a game based on a D his tone is factual. I respond with a tight nod.
Wesley rocks back on his heels, and when the momentum brings him forward again, he steps closer. “I think your farming sim days are behind you, for now; you want something you can sink your teeth into.”
I don’t remember the last time I blinked, my gaze is so trained on him.
“Survival?” he guesses.
My head twitches to the side. No—but close.
“It’s a puzzle game.” This time, it’s not a question—he sounds sure. “You did so many of those back in school. I think you like being a tough egg to crack.”
The laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. “Oh, shut up.” I press my fingers to his lips, as if to physically cut him off—but he just wraps his hand around mine and holds it there, his thumb pressing into my palm.
“I got it right, didn’t I?” he says, his mouth moving against my skin. I swear I feel sparks tingling under my fingertips.
I don’t remember us getting this close. I don’t remember if he took another step forward or if I did. But suddenly, we’re chest to chest in a poor excuse for a standoff. My own lips brush against my knuckles; my hand on his mouth is the only thing separating us.
Slowly, I lower my arm to my side, but I don’t step away.
“You really want to know, don’t you?” The music is loud, but he’s so close, I don’t have to raise my voice above a whisper.
“I want as much as you’ll give me.”
It’s an exact echo of what he said at the park. But as his eyes slide away from mine and linger on my lips, I begin to suspect we’re not talking about games anymore. The club’s music is a hypnotizing murmur in the background. I’m dizzy with it.
Without a second thought, I press my mouth soundly to his.
Wesley doesn’t waste any time being shocked.
After all, this is a conversation we’ve had before, and he picks it up right where it left off.
With a strength that shouldn’t surprise me, he winds both of his arms around my waist and pulls me close until our chests are flush and I can’t distinguish the music’s pulsing bass from the heartbeats thundering under our ribs.
His lips are warm where they glide hungrily against mine, and his hands dip under the hem of my shirt, fingers dragging lines of heat along my spine.
I sigh into his mouth as we stumble backward against the velvet-cushioned wall, and I can’t help the way I arch my back to press myself closer.
As Wesley deepens the kiss, he eases his leg between my thighs in a way that feels alarmingly good.
His teeth catch on my lower lip, like he’s been waiting six years to find out whether I still taste the same.
He doesn’t. He tastes like mint and rum instead of watermelon vodka, and in the back of my head, on repeat, is It’s happening again, it’s happening again—
Then something about the sour taste of the alcohol hits, and the slow, cold realization sets in.
It’s happening again.
If I could close my eyes and pretend that Wesley is just another stranger I met at the bar, I would.
But with the way he kisses me—the confident assurance, his fingers gripping my waist, that low sound in the back of his throat I’ve heard only once before—I could never imagine anyone other than him.
In this moment, I don’t believe I’d ever want to.
I’m so lost in the feel and smell and taste of him that I’m almost willing to set everything aside just so that he won’t stop.
But Wesley is no longer just my adversary, or some guy sitting across from me in the classroom. He’s almost starting to be my friend, and I have so few of those now, and—
Without warning, the lights of Wizardry flash on.
Wesley and I both jerk backward, like two teenagers caught fooling around under the stands at a football game.
The bright fluorescents make everything so much worse; they highlight his mussed hair, bright eyes, and swollen lips. I can’t imagine I look any different.
But his expression—his thoughts flash across his features in wincing moments of horror. Uncertainty.
Regret.
“Fuck,” I say out loud.
“Reagan—”
“It’s time to go.”