Not So Nice Guy(32)
Is he kidding? I thought this was leading somewhere. My panties are wet because my entire body thought this was leading somewhere.
He tries to step back, but my fingers clench the front of his tuxedo shirt in a vice grip and I drag him closer. “Ask me another question.”
“No.”
“Fine, I’ll ask. Sam, do you want me to kiss you right now?”
Then I tilt my head and press my lips lightly to his.
11
S A M
He’s so shocked, and for a second, neither of us closes our eyes. We’re just two friends with our mouths pressed together. I could be resuscitating him for all anybody knows. But, from this angle, I can see his eyes are eclipsing. For three long seconds, we don’t move a muscle. I fall into the Ian ocean, letting those blue eyes completely drown me. We’re frozen in time, and I realize we still haven’t moved.
He’s going to make me do the heavy lifting. That’s okay. Years of dating poor kissers have ensured my mastery of the one-sided smooch. One hand skates up over his chest (nice), collarbone (nicer), broad shoulder (nicest), and then it loops around the corded muscle at his neck. My nails drag along the base of his hair and he relaxes against me. I resist a smirk. Step one is complete.
Step two is harder because I have to break the kiss. It’s like opening the airlock in space; either the outside door is sealed and we survive intact, or all the air gets sucked out of the moment and I die. For a moment, I keep our foreheads pressed together, but our lips aren’t touching. We’re oh-so-close and I’m building the suspense by threading my fingers in his hair and wetting my bottom lip. When his hands tighten on my waist, I know I have him, but I have to be sure. The uppercut is when I take his full bottom lip between my teeth. He groans. Yes, Ian, you’ll want to take off that nice suit because I play dirty.
What the hell are you doing to me? he asks silently.
Beating you at your own game, I mentally reply with a smirk, and then I kiss him again. This time there’s no stoicism on his part. He hauls me up against his chest and slants his mouth against mine. It hits me like a ton of bricks that we’re kissing. IAN FLETCHER AND I ARE KISSING. I would exclaim this out loud if my mouth weren’t currently occupied with something much more important.
Here’s the thing: Ian might have been frozen a few moments ago, but he’s not anymore. His hands dip under his coat and he pushes it off my shoulders. His palms burn across my neck and then lower, skating the outer edges of my breasts. My nipples tighten. His touch sears. I have no doubt my dress is charred and moments from disintegrating into a pile of ash at my feet.
We’re best friends, kissing the exact same way we do everything else: we take liberties, we go too far, we blur and redraw the borders of our comfort zones.
His hands tighten around my waist and he rocks his hips against me, grinding. My fingers curl against his skin and the same adjective from earlier comes to mind: BIG. There’s a new one, too: HARD. Full sentences will come later when my brain isn’t going haywire.
He rocks his hips again and the gesture says, Feel this, Sam? That’s for you.
I make a sound in the back of my throat that I’ve never heard before (a guttural moan mixed with the word “please”) and he delivers, gently coaxing my lips apart and touching the tip of his tongue to mine. Oh yes. Our PG kiss has turned X-rated. I’m glad to see he’s retaliating with vigor.
Don’t stop, don’t stop.
I’ve been deprived of this kiss for so long, and now that it’s happening, I’d like it to last for at least one to two decades. We’ll barricade the windows and door. We’ll tear the pages from the English textbooks stacked against the back wall and make a cozy sex nest. We’ll survive by taking little nibbles of each other every now and then, like little love cannibals. I’m aware it isn’t the most well-adjusted thing to think about during a passionate kiss, but it’s just the kind of joke Ian and I would crack up about for hours. It fits.
In an attempt to bring my body completely flush with his, I nearly fall off the desk. He grins against my mouth and I growl in warning. He must be thinking funny thoughts in his head too, which suddenly irks me. I won’t share this newfound lust with the old Sam and Ian—they have plenty of things to sustain them, but this red-hot fire is the only thing keeping this moment going.
To prove my point, my hand hits the top of his suit pants. His smile disappears in a millisecond and our kiss ratchets up another few degrees. As a reward for his superb skills, I think I’ll let him peel me out of this slip of a dress so we can fulfill every fantasy I’ve ever had. What a genius idea. Let’s get to it.
I slide my hand farther into his pants just as a loud shrieking bell blares overhead, piercing the walls of my quiet classroom. We leap apart so fast I have to reach out to stabilize myself in order to not tip backward off the desk.
Principal Pruitt’s voice sounds over the PA system next. “Those were some excellent dance skills, Oak Hill students! I wish we could party all night, but it’s time to head home. Please proceed to the carpool lane if you have a parent or friend picking you up. No loitering!”
Then his voice cuts off. Ugh. Imagine if your boss had the ability to pipe in his stupid voice while you were in the middle of life-changing sex. Mood officially killed.
Ian and I stare silently at one another.