Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(52)

“Don’t stop until you do. I don’t want to be walking around with pancake on my face.”

“I don’t know how that happened.”

“Me neither.” Our faces are very close.

And speaking of not knowing how things happen, now we’re kissing, and his hands are in my hair and on the back of my head and he’s pulling me into him. It’s fine. Friends do this. They suddenly kiss and kiss and think they’re going to stop but instead they keep going with even more intensity. It’s fine.

He tastes sweet, like a carefree and joyous morning spent watching cartoons.

I’m not sure how long we go at it. Kissing bends time into itself. A kissing minute is equal to years of normal life. After a while we pry our lips apart and lock eyes. He has long eyelashes. They’re quite nice.

“Hey,” he says softly, smiling.

“Hey,” I say, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you.” He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, and then caresses the spot between my ear and my jaw. He’s impossibly gentle for someone so strong. It’s hard to imagine him punching anyone.

“I know.”

“That obvious?”

“Very obvious.”

“I think maybe this is brightening my night more than the pancakes,” he says.

“Dude, I better beat pancakes.”

“One of us deserves to win a fight tonight.”

“I dug your prefight walking-out music, by the way.”

“I hoped you would.”

“I liked your new combat nickname too.”

“I hoped you would.” He reclines onto his bed and pulls me on top of him. I go very willingly.

He kisses my neck and behind my ear, his hands on my lower back. It’s leaving me breathless, honestly, but I manage to say, “How much would it have sucked if I’d shot you down?” I sit up, cross-legged.

He sits up and faces me. “Whatever, you started kissing me,” he whispers as he kisses me behind my ear. In his voice, there’s the swagger and confidence that make him a great fighter, and I’m lying if I say I don’t enjoy it tremendously.

“Why are you so cool all of a sudden?” I say, playfully pushing his chest.

He smiles with one side of his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“You’re this sweet guy who really loves pancakes and listens to Miranda Lambert and reads fantasy books. I didn’t expect you to kiss like a cool guy.”

“You saying I’m not cool?”

“I’m saying you kiss like a cool guy.”

“What if I told you I’ve had some practice?”

“Well, la-dee-dah, lover boy!”

He laughs. “This’ll shock you, but there are girls who like guys who work out a lot. Even if the working out has nothing to do with impressing them.”

I give him another lighthearted push. “You calling me an MMA groupie?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Because I’ll karate you.”

“Don’t karate me.”

“I know karate. I’m good at it.” I rear back. “Hiiiiiiya!” I karate-chop his chest. Listen, it’s a very nice chest.

He laughs and catches my arm and pulls me closer. “I know kiss fu.”

I snort-laugh involuntarily. “Good lord. That is why I’m shocked you’re good at kissing. You are a goof.” I start laughing again, but he cuts me off with a kiss. It’s a pleasant surprise.

We pause. He goes to kiss me again, but I stop short, teasing him. “Who’s more fun to be all tangled up in? Me or Nightmare Purdue?”

“That’s who you’re jealous of? Not the other girls?”

I shrug.

“You’re more fun.”

“Yeah?”

“No contest. First-round knockout.”

“Second victory of the night for me!”

He goes to kiss me but stops. “I just want to look at you for a second. You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t forget funny.”

“And funny.”

I sigh and press into him. We kiss some more.

Lawson breaks the kiss after days (or months?). “I’m going to win a fight in front of you someday.” The joking is gone from his voice. So is the despondency of earlier.

“I believe you.” I fix a piece of his hair knocked wayward by our rumpus.

“I really want that. I want you to see me as a champion.”

“I know.”

Finally—thoroughly flushed, my hair a mess, a dull ache in my lower pelvis, and my lips swollen—I have to leave. I go to open his door. He moves behind me as nimbly as his aching muscles will allow, as though to help. But instead, he pushes me gently but firmly against the door, kissing my neck from behind, his hands on my stomach and hip. He pulls me back into him. “Come here,” he whispers. “Just stay forever.”

I close my eyes and lay my head on his shoulder and let him keep running his lips down my neck. Then I spin to face him, and we start kissing again. He presses me into the door. I dissolve. I am unmade. Taken apart.

“Thanks for making me pancakes.” There’s no defeat left on his face. Only purest victory.