I moved quickly, shoving the bottle into the backpack and zipping it closed. “I’m sorry, Jason. I-I didn’t n-n-nnn-know.” So much for changing the subject.
His hands wrapped around my arms and pulled me closer to him, until our knees overlapped, tangled. “Of course you didn’t. Don’t be upset. Not for me.”
“But I am upset for you. You shouldn’t have to go through that.”
He twisted my shoulders, and I turned in place until my spine was nestled against his chest. Jason leaned back against the cab and wrapped his arms around my stomach beneath my br**sts, his knees drawn up next to my sides. I rested my arms on his knees and tilted my head back to lay it against his shoulder, and suddenly, between one breath and the next, I was completely contented. I felt safe. I could feel his heart thumping faintly, and his breath soughed gently onto my nape. I was entirely too aware of his body then, of his hands so close to my br**sts, his mouth which I could twist in place and kiss, if I were bold enough, his strong arms caging me perfectly. My heart hammered, and I had to focus on stillness so I didn’t panic. I wanted more, more touch, more of his heat, more of his strength. His nearness was intoxicating, and forbidden. I’d sneaked out of my house in the middle of the night, and now I was wrapped in the embrace of a boy. A man? I wasn’t sure. Was he a man yet? Was I woman, or a girl? We were stuck somewhere in between. Thoughts like these floated through my head, demanding answers but receiving none, because his proximity and his hardness were intoxicating.
We breathed together in the cool night air, the sky a silver-bathed black above us. We didn’t need to speak, and that was an amazing thing in itself. The only sounds were our breathing and the wind rustling in the leaves, and a song playing from the radio, fading into a female DJ’s voice announcing the next song: “All right, that was Montgomery Gentry, going back a ways for that one. This next song is for all you late night lovers out there. It’s Gloriana, with ‘(Kissed You) Goodnight.’”
My heartbeat ratcheted up to a frantic patter as I listened to the words of the song, sung sweetly and inciting romance between us in the darkness and the cold of a stolen midnight date. I turned my head, leaned slightly sideways so my shoulder nudged the edge of the truck bed. Jason’s eyes were darkest green, glittering in the starlight and the pale luminous moon glow. I felt his heart pounding against his ribs and my side, and I knew he was going to kiss me then. I waited, breath bated, eyes locked on his, my hands clutching his knees for courage. I wasn’t afraid to kiss him; no, I was afraid I would be too impatient and kiss him first. Hunger for a second kiss was like desperation in my blood, thundering in my muscles and my heart and firing in my brain.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice a soft whisper into the quiet.
I smiled up at him. “Shut up and k-k-k…” I trailed off and closed my eyes, let the word float up and out, “…kiss me already.”
He closed the distance eagerly, covering my mouth with his, and the thunder of our hearts was a syncopated crash of need and nerves. I lost myself, and gloried in the welter of touch and taste—soft and wet and hot, soda and salt—and the soaring sound of my pulse in my ears, and music in the spaces between lip-touches—and I kissed you…goodnight.
When we pulled apart, Jason’s eyes devoured mine. “Kissing you is…god, it’s amazing.”
“Then do it again.” I was amazed by my boldness.
So was he, but he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me again, deeper this time, mouths moving and tongues hesitantly touching and drifting. His palms were splayed on my stomach, and one drifted up my side, stopping at the lower swell of one breast. I lifted my hand and curled it around the back of his head, a move I’d seen in a movie, and knew then the power of my touch, the beauty of a kiss, the wonder of this intimacy. When my fingers caressed the buzzed hair above his nape, he kissed me harder, as if my hand there fueled the fire of his desire. Then his hand slid up just slightly, and his fingers were brushing the side of my breast, a hesitant touch, a quest, a question. I didn’t know the answer, the right response. I wanted more. I did. But…was it okay? Was that wrong? Was it too much, too soon? I liked the way his fingers felt, teasing the edge of propriety, the borderline of modesty. Did I dare encourage him to go further?
He took my hesitation for a demurral, and his hand slid upward, away from temptation. I felt the loss of his touch on my breast like a pang of regret, and covered his hand with mine, stopping it near my underarm. Our kiss paused, and our eyes met. His green orbs searched mine, and then widened as I guided his hand down. His sweatshirt had fallen away as I leaned back into him, and his hand drifted up over the swell of my breast. Even through my sweater and my shirt and my bra, I felt the heat of his hand, the rough power in his touch, the gentility in the way he caressed me. No one had ever touched my breast before, and the thrill of it was like a drug in my system.
My sweater was a button-up cardigan, and I reached up to flick open the first button, and then guided his hand across my body underneath the sweater to my opposite breast. His fingers curled around the weight of my breast, testing, touching, hesitant yet eager. I felt so bold, so daring, so…the word that floated to mind was naughty, as childish as that word seemed. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this, much less encouraging it. But it was so thrilling, so intoxicating. I felt my pulse crashing as he explored my breast through two layers of cotton. I felt adult and womanly and worldly as he kneaded me, caressed me, kissed me.
After an amount of time I couldn’t begin to measure, we pulled away, and his hand fell from my breast back to my stomach, closer to my hip this time.
“You never read me a poem,” he whispered.
My face heated. “You really want to hear one?” He nodded. “You won’t laugh?”
“Not unless it’s supposed to be funny.”
“I don’t write funny poems,” I said, gathering my courage. “But you can’t tell anyone, and you can’t tease me about this.”
He frowned. “Would you tease me about my photography?”
I shook my head. “Never.”
“Then why would I tease you about writing poetry?”
I dug my notebook out of my purse and flipped through the pages, searching for the right one to read him. I found the perfect one, one that spoke to my current feelings, in a way.
I knew I’d never be able to read it out loud without embarrassing myself, so I handed him the notebook and let him read it himself. I could see the words in my mind’s eye, feel them as he read them.