Flower(23)

I blink my eyes open and realize that he’s watching me, his face unreadable. Without a word, he starts leading me toward the house. He turns to me just before we reach the door, his arms going around my waist as he presses me against one of the stone pillars that encircle his back patio. His eyes search mine. I can see his pulse pounding at the base of his neck and then he’s leaning in close. Closer.

I take a deep breath, my chest brushing against his, and he closes his eyes. Tentatively, I settle my hands on his chest, drawing in a sharp breath at my own boldness. He’s so warm. Beneath my palm I can feel the rapid beat of his heart.

Tate draws his finger across my cheekbone, just beneath my eye. His body is so close—only a thin layer of air and clothing separate his chest, his torso, his lips from mine. I tremble and close my eyes, my lips parting in anticipation. I can feel his breath, warm and soft, drift across my lips, and I know he’s close. I know he’s going to kiss me.

And I want him to.

His arms tighten around me as he pulls me firmly against him; not even an inch divides us. A whimper escapes me and before I can say, think, do anything else, he moves in, pressing his mouth to mine.

My senses overwhelm me. An explosion of nerve endings along the delicate surface of my lips. Unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. And everything I’d always imagined a first kiss should be. His lips move hungrily, gentle yet assured. I pray I won’t mess this up, going on pure instinct as his mouth connects with mine again and again. He captures my lower lip with both of his, giving it a soft tug before releasing it. My knees threaten to buckle and I clutch at his shirt, gathering the fabric in my fists.

With every brush of his mouth on mine I feel like I’m soaring. He touches my face. My cheek, my jaw, my chin. His fingers drift down the length of my throat, my collarbone, lingering there. I suck in a shuddering breath, scared he’ll dare to go further. Excited that he might go further...

My eyelids flutter open just as he breaks the kiss. Our breathing is harsh, our chests rising and falling in tandem, and he draws back for only a second, his dark eyes boring into mine. Asking a silent question that I answer with the tiniest nod.

And then he’s kissing me again. More intensely this time, my lips parting beneath his, his warm tongue grazing my skin. I gasp against his insistent mouth and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss. My heart is racing when his finger traces down the center of my chest, between the twin curves of my bra, playing with the low neckline of my shirt.

Finally, my mind returns. Panic racing through me, I press against his chest so our lips break apart. I try to catch my breath, calm my crazed heart, but it’s hard when he continues to toy with my shirt, his fingers brushing against my sensitive skin.

“God, Charlotte.” He shakes his head. “I can’t...” His voice drifts, like he can’t quite figure me out.

Slowly, I look up at him, positive my cheeks are burning red. I should move away, but I stand paralyzed as he drifts his knuckles across my cheek, his touch making me shiver. I inhale sharply just as he moves in to kiss me yet again.

And then I blurt out, “I’ve never done this before.”

“What?” He pulls back an inch.

“I just... I’ve never kissed anyone before.” I close my eyes. Swallow hard, feeling like an idiot. Why did I just tell him that? Talk about a mood-ruiner. But I panicked; it was all happening so fast, it just came out.

Tate takes an almost imperceptible step back, but suddenly the night air feels cool all around me. “You’ve never kissed anyone?” He sounds incredulous.

I slowly shake my head. “I’ve never done—anything like this.”

His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “How is that possible?”

“It just...hasn’t been a priority,” I admit, glancing away from those penetrating eyes.

“But you’ve had boyfriends before, right?”

I feel my eyebrows furrow. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been waiting,” I try to explain. “But it doesn’t mean I want to stop.” I shake my head, humiliation rising through me. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know why I did. I’m sorry I ruined the moment.”

“I’m the sorry one, Charlotte,” he tells me, and I can hear a hint of regret in his voice. But I still don’t expect what he says next. “Because I can’t do this.” His voice is flat, toneless, and yet the words are a sharp edge cutting straight through me.

He steps away, and the world rushes in: the night air, the sound of the wind through the trees, a car passing in the distance.

“You should probably go.” His voice is soft but distant, and he’s suddenly a million miles away. The void between us is cold, like his body never occupied that space, as if I imagined it all. “Hank will drive you home,” he says, but I’m already having a hard time focusing on his words, my head starting to spin, unable to process what changed so suddenly between us.

I don’t nod. I can’t even speak. But I watch as he walks toward the house—feeling anchored, pressed against the stone pillar where he left me, reeling. He glances back once and a moment passes between us, but I can’t read the expression on his face: maybe regret? Or is it embarrassment that he just made out with a girl so na?ve that she had completely different expectations of the night than he clearly did? He must be wishing he had never brought me here. All he says is “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” before he slips inside.