Kiara （Age 17） #2
Then something in his face breaks open. Not a full smile, but that tiny, disbelieving one he tries to hide all the time.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, barely audible. “Yeah. Of course.”
He shuts off the motor and shifts, turning in his seat just enough that his knee angles toward my direction and his shoulder brushes the backrest. He looks happy. I also turn toward him, folding my legs beneath me on the seat until I’m facing him completely.
I can feel the last bits of dizziness slowly melting away, like the water and the quiet and him are sobering me faster than anything else. My heartbeat still jumps every time he moves, but my thoughts are clearing. Kind of.
“I’m really sorry for what happened at the restaurant.”
His eyes flicker around the steering wheel, one of his hands gripping it so tight the knuckles turn white. “It won’t happen again,” he adds, voice firm this time.
He exhales, slow and frustrated.
My chest tightens. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t want me to see whatever is in his eyes right now.
He continues, voice lower, “It wasn’t you. At all. It was them. They’re not good people.”
I stare at him for a moment—his tense shoulders, the way he keeps rubbing his thumb along the leather like it’s grounding him.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” I assure him.
He finally looks at me, like he wants to do exactly the opposite of what I just said.
“I hate that rotten world I grew up in and I just don’t want you near it.”
“Okay,” I reply, barely audible, while resting my head on the headrest, turning to him, smiling.
I somehow feel like he just opened up to me, sort of, and the feeling is better than anything.
I don’t want to scare him, or ruin it, so I don’t ask.
He looks like he wants to keep talking but something stronger is pulling him in another direction.
His gaze drops to my mouth for not even a second, but I feel it everywhere. The air shifts.
“Kiara,” he murmurs, barely audible, like he’s warning himself.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of us. It just happens.
The kiss hits immediately. No hesitation, no softness this time.
Warm, urgent, hungry, like the bathroom kiss cracked something open in us and now we can’t take it back.
I gasp into his mouth and grab the front of his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me there while he kisses me deeper, slower, then deeper again.
He breaks away for a split second, breathing against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine.
“Come here,” he whispers, low and rough.
Before I even process it, his hands tighten on my waist firmly and he lifts me, a tiny sound escaping me as he guides me over the center console.
My hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of his seat for balance while my other hand lands on his shoulder.
My knees fight a little over the console, but then I finally slide onto him properly, settling on his lap, my knees pressing into the sides of his jeans as I catch my breath.
His hands stay on my waist, holding me there, fingers splayed, grounding but electrifying at the same time. The moment our bodies fit together like that, I feel my heartbeat everywhere. In my ears, in my throat, and low in my lap, sharp and warm.
His lips crash back into mine, harder and desperate.
The kind of kiss that steals the air from my lungs.
His hands slide from my waist to my ribs, just holding, his thumbs brushing the curve under my breasts in a way that sends electricity straight through my stomach.
I gasp and he swallows the sound like he owns it.
The kiss turns deeper. Messier. His breath is shaky against my mouth like he can’t control it anymore. I fist the fabric of his shirt and his hair tighter, pulling him closer, and he lets out a low noise into my mouth, something between a groan and losing every last bit of self-control.
His hands slip to my hips, his fingers digging into my ass just enough to make my whole body tighten. My chest presses to his, feeling his heart pounding through both our clothes.
Mine matches it, beat for beat.
My hips shift instinctively to get closer to him, but his hands are keeping me in place. I lean into him again, lips brushing his like I can’t help it, but his grip tightens and he nudges my hips back, not letting me slide more into his lap.
“Kiara,” the sound of my name is broken by the kisses.
His voice is so low it almost disappears. His forehead drops to mine, both hands steadying me like he’s afraid I might slip away. His breathing too fast, like he’s just outrun something he can’t name.
“Wait,” he murmurs.
I go still, confused and breathless, my fingers still tangled in his hair.
He swallows, eyes shut. “Stop moving.” His voice falters in a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.
A slow, knowing smile curves on my lips when I realize. I let my head fall into the warm hollow between his neck and shoulder, staying there, letting him have that moment.
He exhales, tipping his head back against the seat, his chest rising and falling under me. The tension softens between us, not gone, just quieter.
For a second, we just breathe.
His fingers find my jaw, brushing lightly over my skin. The roughness of his scars contrasts with the gentleness of the touch. I lean into it without thinking, pressing my cheek deeper into his palm, eyes falling shut.
His thumb drifts lower, grazing my lips, tracing the edge until they part slightly under the touch. When I open my eyes, he’s already there.
The next kiss is slower. Deeper. Like neither of us is in a hurry anymore.
I don’t think I ever want to leave this car.
After a while, I slide back to my passenger seat, fighting with the console and almost face-planting into the passenger window. He grabs his hoodie from the backseat and gives it to me since I’m still only in my dress, and I wrap myself into his scent.
I’m definitely not giving this back.
We end up talking about random stuff and I relax myself, putting my feet up on the dashboard, but it’s too cold so I tuck them back to my seat.
“Are you cold?” he asks when he sees that.
“Not really, it’s fine.”
He doesn’t buy it, he reaches out and grabs both of my feet, placing them in his lap and warming them with his hands. I fight a little but he keeps holding them, then I cover my face with my palm as he takes them and shoves them under his T-shirt to warm them up.
It feels like he’s always finding a way to touch me.
I like it.
Eventually, I feel so warm that my eyes start to flutter shut. But I don’t want to leave him yet. We’ve been here for hours and it’s almost four in the morning. This guy is not letting me sleep ever.
Not that I’m complaining.
“I need to go, my shift at the hotel starts in six hours.”
“What? Why didn’t you say something?” His eyes snap open like I just told him I’m moving to another continent.
“I didn’t want this to end.” My voice is barely audible.
Did I really just say that out loud?
I want to swallow the words back immediately, but he just stares at me like I hung the stars myself.
“I’ll be here at nine thirty.”
“What? No,” I blurt out. “I’m taking an Uber.”
No. He’s not seeing me half-dead, mascara-smudged, smelling like jello shots and poor life choices.
“Definitely not,” he states firmly.
Of course he says it like it’s final. Ugh. Why is that hot?
“I don’t want you to see me with a hangover and no sleep. This is non-negotiable.” I try to sound firm.
“I won’t look then, I promise.”
He’s smiling. He’s actually smiling like this is cute. I grab my shoes and get out of the car.
“No!” I yell.
He’s laughing under his breath as I shut the door on him.
God, that laugh.
I head toward my house, trying not to trip on the walkway because that would be humiliating and exactly the kind of thing I would do after the best night of my life.
Once inside, I set my alarm for eight a.m., my thumb shaking slightly—either from exhaustion or from the fact that he said he’ll be here. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to pick me up after I’ve had five hours of sleep and a mild existential crisis.
I crash into my bed, not taking his hoodie off so I can fall asleep to his scent.
?
My hair is still a bit damp from the shower, but I have no time to dry it properly. My head is spinning with a hangover, and I can’t even put my mascara on straight. I do a quick natural makeup look and run back to my room to grab my work bag when I hear a car under my window.
Of course he’s really here.
I would genuinely appreciate at least one day to emotionally process how much I humiliated myself when I couldn’t even walk in my own shoes. I think I’m gonna do a shot at work just to survive this. A coffee shot.
I run down the stairs and step out the front door.
He’s leaning against his car, arms crossed, like he’s been there for a while.
The second I step outside, one of his hands flies up to his face, covering his eyes dramatically. I bite back a laugh and stop right in front of him.
He reaches out like he’s trying to blindly locate me, one hand still covering his eyes, the other lands on my waist, fingers curling there as if he has to guess who he’s touching.
“I hope it’s you and not your mom, that would be a little inappropriate,” he finally says.
I laugh under my breath, still processing his audacity. His grip on my waist tightens, and he pulls me in so fast our bodies collide, and before I can even register it, his lips are on mine.
I wonder if he can feel that my legs have fully given up once more.
He lets me go slowly, and I pull back, stunned. He immediately slaps his hand back over his eyes and, with his other hand, opens the passenger door for me.
He’s being ridiculous.
And of course, I’m completely falling for this gentleman act.
I slide into the seat, unable to take my eyes off him as he walks around the front of the car.
He looks so happy. The brightness of it feels out of place against everything else about him—that usual, unreadable edge.
He gets in without a word and starts the car, his gaze fixed anywhere but on me. I bite back a smile, sinking into the seat instead.
“How are you feeling? Headache, bellyache, regret?” He adds the last word softer, like he’s bracing for impact.
“Hungover, sleep-deprived, and emotionally compromised. Thank you very much.”
His cocky smile widens as he tries to keep his eyes on the road, like he’s proud of being the reason.
This is so… nice. I feel so taken care of. I’ve never felt like this before.