I need him to kiss me.

I need to know if this connection building between us is real.

Painfully slowly, his lips part the barest of a fraction—barely—meeting the next brush of my mouth. He receives it tentatively, unsure.

Then another and another, the soft whisper of our kisses in the dark.

Our lips.

When I raise my lids, I discover his are closed, long lashes brushing his high cheekbones. Nostrils flared, controlled breaths in and out. Nowhere near satisfied, my eyes scan his scar-marred face before sweeping my mouth once more across his.

I want to sob when his mouth finally opens, tongue touching mine, low groan escaping his chest; it’s long and loud and primal. Almost a whimper. Painful.

He’s shaking.

My hands fall limply to my sides, weightless, body and nerves losing all center of gravity, knees wobbling when his mouth hovers over mine and his delicious tongue agrees to get acquainted. Our heads slant for a better angle.

God, I want to run my fingers through his shaggy hair. Kiss his face, his eyebrows, his broken nose.

He leans into me, too, my breasts swollen and his chest rubbing, pecs so mouthwateringly hard I can feel his nipples through my shirt. Through my bra.

Rhett kisses me like he means it, hard but gentle. Lazy but controlled. Firm and soft and then, “Tu sens merveilleuse.”

His raspy French murmur sends a tingle shooting straight down my spine, down to my toes. Whatever the words are he’s whispering, they send a ripple of desire through my core, getting me—oh God—so hot.

I want to curl up inside those words. Get naked in them.

Everything with Rhett and me started off so wrong in the worst ways, and now being with him just…

It’s right.

I like him.

Really like him.

I find the strength in my arms to raise my hands. Slide them heatedly up his abs. Sternum. Collarbone. Poise to cup the back of his neck and pull him in.

“Laurel…” he whispers, forehead falling back down onto mine. “Laurel.”

“Yes?”

“You…” He swallows. “Should go inside.”

“I should?”

He nods. “I should go.”

“You should?” But why?

Face flaming hot from embarrassment, I forget about the biting cold when I step back feebly, butt hitting the door. Turn to unlock it, fumbling with the key, body trembling. Tears tingling the bridge of my nose in between my eyes.

I refuse to turn around and look at him, so I tell the door, “Good night.”

I sense Rhett hesitating behind me. “Good night.”

It’s not until I’m inside, body slack in the entry hall, catching my breath, do I realize: not once did Rhett’s hands leave his pockets.

Rhett

I can’t go into my house.

So I sit in my Jeep, parked in front of it with the engine still running, hands still gripping the steering wheel.

What the fuck was that all about?

What the fuck was that?

What was that?

Someone needs to spell it out because I’m confused as fuck.

Laurel kissed me.

I replay it over and over in my head, head tipped back, hitting the headrest. Stare unblinking at the ceiling of my Jeep, at the wide expanse of tan fabric, breathing hard, fighting for control over my accelerated heart rate.

Take my pulse: 140.

Jesus.

Are my roommates right? Does she like me?

There’s no freaking way. Not possible.

With a trembling hand, I skim the front of my gray pants, across the length of my hard cock, pressing down but not stroking. I saw her blatantly checking me out on the porch but dismissed it as curiosity. I’m not completely clueless; I know I have a great body. I train hard for it, day after grueling day.

It’s my face that isn’t winning any beauty contests.

Never would I have thought a girl like that would look twice in my direction.

Now? I’m not so sure.

Rhett

I haven’t been able to think of anything but that kiss. Can’t step outside without shooting furtive glances at the small white house sitting at the end of my block, watching for her to come out.

Watching for any sign of her, really.

That kiss happened three days ago and I haven’t seen or heard from her since—not that I expected to. It’s not like we’re dating; it’s not like she’s obligated to.

Still…

One part of me is really fucking disappointed I haven’t heard from her, while the other part of me wonders if she’s been waiting for me to message her.

Shit.

I sit, deliberating, unable to concentrate on the papers stacked in front of me. My friends would have no problem figuring this shit out; they’d message her without hesitating, probably would have the minute they walked off her porch the other night.

I stare at the essays blankly, composing a text to Laurel in my mind before typing one out, hoping like hell she welcomes the random message.

Me: Hey there.

Laurel: Hey stranger! I was wondering where you’d gone.

Dammit, I was right—she’s been waiting for me to message her first. Sometimes I’m such an asshole.

Me: Correcting papers and studying at the library.

Laurel: Which one?

Me: Public. Over off Broadway

Laurel: You’re not hiding are you?

Me: LOL, no.

Maybe.

Laurel: How would you feel about some company?

My chest expands, constricts, heart racing.

Hell yeah I want her company—I fucking miss her beautiful face. Her bright red hair and flirtatious smiles. The way she touches my arm with the tips of her fingers.

Me: You should probably get your ass over here.

Laurel: Be careful—it sounds suspiciously like you’re flirting…

Me: I’m doing my best.

Laurel: That was a good start—I’ll be there in twenty. Walking.

Me: Want me to come get you?

Laurel: No worries, I’ll manage ;)

Shit. If she’s walking, that means she’s going to need a ride home, and we know how that ended last time—with me pussing out on her front porch.

I clear room on the table, stack the sparse number of school supplies I have on top of a notebook, and straighten the chairs. Reach up and run both hands through my hair, finger-combing that shit. I glance down, giving my plaid flannel a cursory onceover for stains.

Roll the sleeves to my elbows.

Stand to smooth down the front of my jeans, realizing too late I’m primping like a fucking girl.

For a girl.

I sit my ass back down, stare at the entrance. Check the time stamp of Laurel’s text and glance at the clock.

It’s been eight minutes.

Eleven.

Fifteen.

At nineteen minutes, I sit up straight when the doors at the entrance breeze open, followed by a cool gust of wind I feel from my spot in the corner.

Laurel pauses in the doorway, backpack draped over one shoulder, scanning the perimeter, seeking me out.

I use the time to check her out.

Skinny jeans. Brown half boots. Green plaid shirt, navy vest. Flaming red hair down in loose waves—wavy enough that even I know it didn’t happen naturally.

She spots me. Begins weaving her way in my direction, eyes focused on my table.

On me.

Beams down at me when she reaches the table.

“Hey.”

Bites her pink bottom lip. “Hi.”

Okay, what now?

“We match,” I blurt out dumbly—we’re both wearing plaid.

The corners of her eyes crinkle, delighted. “We do.”

“I saved you a seat.” I laugh, and Laurel’s eyes scan the nearly empty library.

“Not exactly a hub of activity, is it?”

“Nope. That’s what I like about it.”

“I don’t blame you. This is nice.” With her backpack rested on the chair, she unzips it, pulling out her laptop. Notebook. Pen. “Can you believe I’ve never been here?”

“Did you find the place okay?”

“Yeah. That’s what GPS is for.” She winks flirtatiously, removing her vest and hanging it on the back of her chair.

“You used your GPS to get here?”

“Haven’t you ever used the walking guide?”

“Uh, no?”