Kiss Her Once for Me (69)

Before I can break my vow for the night, Jack straightens. She takes three purposeful strides across the bathroom until she arrives in front of me at the sink. I think she might shake me.

I think I might kiss her.

But I don’t, because Jack grabs the sides of my face, and then she’s the one who’s kissing me.





Chapter Nineteen


This isn’t technically in violation of the goal for the night.

After all, Jack is the one who is kissing me, and it tastes like fire and hops and hope. Jack is kissing me, a kiss like a question mark. Her mouth is hesitant against mine, and I know I should pull away. That’s the rule, that’s the bargain I’ve struck with myself. No kissing Jack. For her sake.

Except I’m so tired. Except I’m so lonely. Except here’s this woman who makes me feel so damn full. The cookie-cutter outline in my chest.

I answer the question on her lips with yes and please and more. I kiss her back because everything in my life is shit but this.

I boost myself up, and I wind my hands into her hair, and I kiss her like I know it’s going to hurt later. I kiss her like I don’t care. I feel like I’m back in the snow a year ago, tasting her for the first time, learning the press of her mouth and the sureness of her hands and the solidness of her body. It’s been a year since we’ve done this properly, but it feels like we’re remembering old choreography. It’s muscle memory, the way my arms circle her waist, the way her fingers weave into her hair, the way our chins tilt, the way we arch into each other.

She drops one hand gently to my waist, two fingers on the side of my throat, and she’s still kissing me carefully. I open my mouth just enough to press my tongue to that white scar, and Jack makes a soft sound in the back of her throat—because she’s secretly so soft. We both are.

My hands search for her softness, for the plush fat of her hip bones beneath her flannel. Suddenly, I don’t want careful. I want to kiss Jack while I can. Before I lose her again.

I pull her closer to me, until my back digs into the sink, until she’s pinning my body in place. I coax her mouth open and run the tip of my tongue along the roof of her mouth the way she likes. She goes boneless in my arms, one hand winding around my braid until she pulls, exposing the side of my throat. She kisses me there, with teeth. With her tongue. There’s nothing careful about it.

Jack kisses me into a knot that only she can untangle. She folds her body into mine, and time folds itself in half, until last Christmas feels like it was yesterday, like we’re picking things up exactly where we left them. We’re not kissing in a disgusting dive bar bathroom. We’re outside the Butch Oven, kissing in the snow. We’re in an empty bar, kissing in the dark over spiced eggnog. We’re in her Airstream, kissing like we have all the time in the world.

She takes off my cardigan at some point. I take off her flannel.

Jack lifts me up and sets me down on the edge of the sink, and then she takes a step back. She looks at me. She steps between my open legs and stares and stares and stares. “So pretty,” she says, in her Jack-whisper that’s still loud enough to hear over the music. And I know this compliment comes at the intersection of too many IPAs and bad bathroom lighting, but I don’t care.

I reach up, and I push that sweaty chunk of hair out of her eyes, and I stare back at her. At the beautiful slope of her jaw, at the twist of her swollen mouth, at the subtle glint of hope in her eyes. It’s the hope that fucking kills me every time.

How did I manage to mess this all up last year? How do I make sure I don’t mess this up again?

I take off my shirt. Arguably a great way to mess this up, but Jack’s eyes go even darker. She crowds in closer to me, her hands chart their way from my soft stomach up to the front of my nude bra, and then she’s kissing me again. Deep, wild kisses. Kisses that ride the wave of her body as she grinds against me, the seam of my jeans against her hip bone, her mouth on my mouth, my shoulder, my collarbone, the top of my breasts.

“You’re so pretty.” She breathes these words against my skin, tucks them into all my soft, fragile places. “Thank God you’re not marrying him, Elle,” she moans. “You can’t marry him. I—I don’t know what I’ll do if you marry him.”

I freeze on the edge of the sink.

For a moment, Jack’s mouth goes still against my skin. Then she pulls away.

She stares at me again. I’m shirtless, horny, kissed within an inch of my life. Absolutely panicking. “You’re…” Jack licks her swollen lips. “You’re still going to marry him, aren’t you?”

“Jack—”

That’s all I manage to say before the hope flickers out of her. She blinks, and then she’s taking another step back from me, reaching for her flannel on the sticky floor. “I’m sorry,” Jack says, without looking at me. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Jack, I can explain.”

“This was a mistake.” Jack snatches up my T-shirt and holds it out for me. I take it, drape it across the front of my body like it might protect me from this moment. “We can pretend like this never happened, okay?”

Her voice is hard as flint, her face turned away from me. Physically, she’s still here in this bathroom, but emotionally, she’s already hidden herself away in her Airstream again, already retreated back behind her aluminum shield.