| 28 |
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AS SOON as his lips touch mine, I know I'm not as drunk as I might have thought I was. His fingers latch onto my waist, tugging me closer, and my first thought is an unmistakably relieved:
God I am so fucking glad I'm going to remember this tomorrow.
I sigh into him when I get that first touch, and it's enough encouragement for him to surge forward — closer, if that's even possible. The base of my spine collides with the countertop, but I barely feel it, even as Grayson blows out an annoyed huff at the harsh movement.
All I feel is him.
His mouth moves against mine in a controlled rush, like he's worried he might not get enough of a taste of me before it ends. He drags his teeth along my lower lip, then his tongue, and it takes what little control I have left not to moan into his mouth.
My body arches into his, pressing us together in all the minimal places we weren't already touching. It's the kind of mindless, bodily reaction that I might have found embarrassing if I were kissing anyone else. If Grayson didn't respond to the friction with a pleased groan.
It's intoxicating — kissing him. It's bruising fingertips dipping under my jersey to grip my waist and the soft wisps of hair that brush my palms when I finally move my hands up his neck. It's the the quiet hums of approval that pass between us when our tongues finally touch.
I can already feel myself getting addicted to it all.
And really, I asked for this. It's entirely my own fault that it's not enough. That it will never be enough. That my hands will fist the soft chest of his T-shirt to try to yank him into me. That my lips will fight against his, harsh and biting, just to make sure he doesn't pull away first.
That the voice inside my head, that has truly never been louder, won't stop repeating the same word again and again.
More. More. More. More.
When we do break apart, I'm going to want to do it all over again. And that's my fault too.
A rush of unease sweeps through me, mixing uncomfortably with the heat coursing in my veins.
I didn't prepare for this — the want, need, being this intense. Because this feels too fucking good to be what it truly is: one impulsive, mindless kiss. And I'm an idiot.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot—
The hand that had rose to linger on the side of my jaw slides up and snags in my hair, pulling just enough to force me to break away. My scalp tingles under the pressure.
My eyes snap open to glare — annoyed, despite the fears creeping up on me — at the man now holding me too far away from where I want to be.
I'm met with damp, scowling lips and the heat of his stare, now darkened to the color of graphite.
"Stop," orders Grayson, the word a breathless growl, "thinking."
"I'm not—" I start to protest, but he's not having it. He slants his mouth back over mine in a hateful rush before I can get the words out.
I find that I'm a little bit too okay with it. A little bit too okay, in general, with being bossed and pushed around by him.
"Look at you." Grayson smirks against my mouth. His words are husky and warm, and I feel them against my skin. Taste them on my tongue. "So good at following directions."
It's as if I truly swallow the words. They melt down my throat, into my stomach, between my thighs.
"Don't get used to it."
I intend to mean it, but he's moved his lips to my jaw and his hand to my throat, and the words come out too breathless to be convincing.
The hand that had fallen to grip aimlessly at the countertop travels back up to his hair as he works his way down my neck. I tug, and I'm rewarded with another throaty groan.
His teeth graze my pulse point, and his groan turns into a rough sigh. The ache inside me grows heavier. Headier. I angle my head back, skull colliding with the cabinet behind me, trying to give him an easier angle.
Grayson huffs again — a low, angry sound that vibrates against my skin.
It takes me another second to realize that he's not annoyed at me or at what my hands are doing as they dig deeper into the roots of his hair. That at some point, someone else entered the kitchen. And now they won't shut up or fuck off.
"...hit—Fuck. Fuck me. Don't kill me, Gray, seriously, but uh, Noah just got here, and if we don't—"
Fucking Wesley.
With what can only be described as an irritated snarl, Grayson reluctantly breaks away from me. I shiver at the loss, my breath fanning against his throat as he glares at the doorway.
My hand instinctively raises to press against my lips, now swollen and tingling. My blood hums.
More. More. More.
"What," Grayson asks, voice hoarse and clipped, "could you possibly need right now, Wes?"
I never really thought I'd be annoyed by the man standing in the doorway. He's harmless. 6 feet of contagiously wide smiles and good intentions.
But now, all I want is to shove him back into the living room with my own two hands.
Wesley's cheeks burn. He raises a single brow. "Well if you were listening, I just explained—"
"I think it's pretty obvious that I wasn't listening."
"Yeah, that was pretty obvious." Wesley cracks a teasing smile, obviously over whatever mortification came from interrupting us. "Nice work, Rem. You've got my boy thoroughly flustered."
It's my turn to blush.
Grayson blows out a ragged breath and lifts a hand off my hip to drag it through his hair. Hair that still looks impatiently disheveled from my fingertips.
"Wes," he grunts. "Tell me what you want. Quickly. Or I'm gonna kick you out myself."
Wesley snickers. "Noah's here with the cake."
There's a beat of silence.
"You got her a cake?"
"We did." He beams, proud, before his eyes narrow. His lips tilt into a knowing smirk. "Why? Mad we're making you look bad?"
Grayson glares, fingers tightening around my waist. "You guys do know that she's my girlfriend and not yours, right?"
My silly, silly heart does something really stupid when it hears that.
"Maybe she prefers us."
"Unlikely."
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe if I was alone in the kitchen with her—"
"Don't you fucking—"
My mind is still thoroughly fuzzy. Half lingering on the feel of Grayson's lips still warm on my mouth and the other practically gaping at the highly amused man in the doorway. It takes me a minute to catch up.
"You guys got me a cake?"
Considering all that they've done for me today, it shouldn't be surprising.
But it is.
It really is.
Grayson's gaze flickers back to me, annoyance dimming to something lighter. Softer.
Wesley's smile stretches. "We did. Now, come on, birthday girl."
Expelling a small breath, Grayson adjusts my crooked Saint Patrick's Day headband, takes a step back and holds out a hand to me. "Let's go get you cake."
The cake in question is slightly smushed, smothered in pink icing, and decorated with yellow daisies and my misspelled name.
It's perfect—
"It's not chocolate."
I swat at Grayson's arm. "It's perfect." I beam up at the four now frowning men. "I love it. Thank you."
"I would've gotten you chocolate."
Wes and Noah's frowns deepen.
"Shut it."
Maverick groans. "I told you we should've got the chocolate one."
Noah throws his hands up. "Well, how was I supposed to know—"
"Just look in our freezer!"
Grayson snickers beneath his breath. I resist the urge to hit him again.
"I love all kinds of cake," I reassure them, still smiling. "Chocolate cake isn't even that good."
"Right. It's only you're fav—"
"And I'm dying to eat it. So, let's dig in." Before I stab Grayson with a plastic fork.
I reach for a pale pink plate and a matching napkin — both of which have an unmistakably enthusiastic it's a girl sprawled across them in silver letters — and
I'm pulled back by a quick, strong grip.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, not so fast, birthday girl," Preston tucks me into his side, despite having to shove himself between Grayson and me to do so. "We haven't sung yet."
God. No.
"But," I say, desperate to avoid the singing of anything in my direction. Absolutely nothing is worse than having every ounce of attention on you while being joyfully serenaded. "Cake."
It's no use.
My nearly foolproof argument of 'but... cake' gets immediately bulldozed as soon as Preston deposits me on the couch.
They sing to me. Of course they sing to me.
It's loud and mostly filled with strangers, those still lurking around the living room joining in, even though they have absolutely no idea who I am. Christina is the loudest. She crawls onto the couch beside me and bounces on her knees, practically yelling. A bottle of vodka is poised in her never-empty hands and another tally mark is added to my arm by the time the song is over.
The candles are lit. Everyone waits.
There's so many things I want but suddenly, I can't think of a single thing to wish for.
I crane my neck toward the table, take a deep breath, and blow the candles out.
∿
THE REST of the weekend passes by in a painful blur. Until suddenly — it's Tuesday.
Grayson doesn't mention the kiss. And neither do I.
Partially because I'm stubborn. The silent, unspoken words drag its nails across my anger any time him and I are in the same room. Picking at my nerves when he begins a conversation that doesn't start with, 'so, about your birthday...'. That same anger swirls in my belly if I try to open my mouth, asking me why I should be the one to have to bring it up first.
It's easy to agree with the anger. So, I keep my mouth shut.
The other reason, I'm sure, is much more complicated. But we really don't need to get into that—
"Got everything?"
A startled breath squeezes between my chapped lips and swirls in the chilled air. I spin around to find Grayson leaned against the bed of Theo's truck, watching me shove my nearly-overflowing bag into the backseat.
My eyes skate over his ruffled appearance. He's wearing nothing but a loose, thin sweatshirt. His hair even more unruly than usual, stuffed again under a backward baseball hat, dark tangles curling around the dusty gray brim.
He looks cold. And miserable. But I doubt he'd go back inside and put a heavier jacket on if I told him to. He'd rather torture himself with bristling wind just to watch my every step as I load up for the miserable trip I have ahead of me.
It snowed again Sunday night into Monday. So, if it wasn't already, driving is essentially the last thing I want to do. Snow is still piled on the edge of the roads, dirty with black asphalt and flakes of dead grass. For the most part, the highway has been cleared off, but it doesn't ease my dread for the four hour drive ahead of me.
Grayson shifts off the door and takes a step toward me, mouth moving to open with what I can only assume will be another pestering of redundant, already answered questions.
"Yes." I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the following sarcastic daddy from accidentally slipping out. "You've only asked me five times."
I sound more irritated than I am. Truly, I'm only a tiny bit irritated at the present moment. The driving anxiety stirring in my gut is overpowering everything else, but it stills just enough to note that we're having yet another conversation that actively avoids our previous exchange of bodily fluids.
He shrugs. "You're a very disorganized person. You can't blame me for being suspicious of your road-trip proficiency."
"You just don't understand my process."
"Process?" He quirks a brow, and I know he's thinking of this morning, when he walked in on me standing in the middle of a clothing-massacre in his bedroom.
To be fair, I'd greatly misjudged how much of my things had gotten strewn amongst the walls of this house over the past few weeks. It'd taken longer than I expected to gather enough things to make it through the rest of the week. But still, I managed it. My green tote is stuffed and safe in the backseat of the truck.
A perfectly positive reference for the efficiency of my process, thank you very much.
"So," coaxes Grayson when I lean over the wheel and turn the ignition. The engine reluctantly hums to life, ticking awkwardly amidst the cold weather. "Still absolutely set on Theo's truck?"
His questions are becoming predictable.
I shrug. "Gotta get there somehow."
With Christina's spur of the moment decision to go to her Dad's for Thanksgiving, it was either this or five hours on the bus. The choice was pretty obvious, despite the unfortunate factor of accepting a favor from my ex.
At the sound of his obnoxiously loud truck, Theo appears at the front door and bounds down the porch steps.
"Got everything?"
Grayson stiffens at the question. As if he's the only one that has the right to ask me that.
I smother my smile behind the hair that whips in my face. "Yep. All set."
I make sure my words come out more upbeat than when I answered Grayson. For absolutely no reason at all.
He grunts out something too quiet to hear.
"Okay, so a few things," Theo says, rubbing his gloved hands together, "If the gearshift gets stuck you just gotta shake it a bit. And if the door sticks hit it twice, hard, and it should open. Otherwise you'll have to crawl through the other side and..."
"Clarke, I'm begging you," Grayson says through a strained voice, speaking lowly over Theo's droned instructions, "take my car."
I roll my eyes. It's the fourth time he's offered it since he found out I was driving the truck, his issues with Theo somehow extending onto the vehicle. He practically glowers at it anytime his gaze passes over the dented beast.
"No."
Grayson scowls, jaw tightening as he turns back to Theo, even though it's the same answer I've given him the other times he's asked. There's no way I'm taking his barely-has-so-much-as-a-fingerprint-on-it BMW anywhere in this kind of weather.
Or anywhere in general. I don't drive enough to be considered even remotely good at it.
A fact I'm sure Grayson is painfully aware of by now after watching my frantic, nervous jitters all morning anytime I'm reminded I have to get behind the wheel.
Theo finally finishes his checklist. "If anything happens just call me, okay?"
"Sure—"
"Drake," Grayson grunts, "when was the last time this thing passed inspection?"
"Uh, not that long ago I'm sure, why—"
"I'm asking for a specific date."
"Grayson," I groan. This is getting ridiculous, and if I don't leave soon I'll still be on the highway by the time my mother calls to ask how close I am. "It runs and it has heat. That means it passes."
Emphasis on the heat. Even with the wool socks I tugged on this morning and the snow boots currently bunching my sweats awkwardly at my calves, I'm losing feeling in my feet.
He sighs. "Clarke."
"Katz."
"Come on, man." Theo throws an arm over Grayson's shoulder, adding more fuel to the fire than anything else. "She'll be fine. Lighten up."
Grayson's eyes narrow. His lip twitches.
"Alright, I gotta get going," I say, eager to prevent another back-and-forth of whether or not I'm absolutely, one hundred percent set on driving Theo's truck (it's always going to be yes). "You're sure you don't mind Theo riding with you?"
Unlike him and his repetitive pestering, it's the first time I've asked the question. It was the simple fix, given Grayson is coming to me and Theo just so happened to grow up in the house two streets over from mine, but it is a four hour drive. And I have absolutely no idea how they'll spend the time.
"If I say I do, will you drive my car instead?"
"Nope," I say. "Nice try though."
"Then no." Grayson sticks his hands in his armpits, forearms taut against the ongoing wind. His mouth dips into a loose frown. "I don't mind at all."
I know he's lying. He knows I know he's lying. Still, I smile up at him as if he's fooled me.
"Great. Then everything's settled," I chirp, "See you on Thursday."
I spin around and pull at the door handle.
It doesn't budge.
Fuck. I yank harder, wiggling the cold, metal handle with enough force I'm surprised I don't rip the thing off.
Theo said to shake it. I'm fucking shaking it. So why the fuck isn't it opening—
"You gotta hit it, Em."
I freeze. Sigh into the stuck door.
Right.
I hit it, twice. It pops open on the next pull.
"Do you think she remembers any of my instructions?"
"I don't know. Maybe if your truck wasn't a piece of shit—"
"Hey—fuck you, dude. It's not a piece of—"
I pull the door open another inch and it lets out a pained screech.
"Wait."
The word, barely more than an impatient exhale, comes when I start to get into the driver's seat. I turn back toward the two lurkers, pressing my hip to the truck.
Grayson is at my side in one stride. His gaze sweeps over my face, taking stock of my patiently raised eyebrow and the stubborn edge of my chewed lips. He sighs for what can only be the hundredth time today and, in a move that feels like an absentminded afterthought, slips his hat off his head and deposits it onto mine.
It sinks down over my forehead, obscuring my view.
"Call me."
"How forward of you," I tease, adjusting the hat so that I can actually see him.
He looks entirely unamused. "I'm serious. As soon as you get there."
"You'll probably still be on the bus."
"And?"
And I don't really want to bother you when you're surrounded by the whole team, hyping each other up about crushing your enemies or whatever the hell football players do before games.
"And if I forget?"
He glowers at me. "Don't."
I press my lips together.
It should be annoying — how obtusely protective he is over this when we aren't even dating. When we aren't even... well, anything really.
But with the small flurries sticking to his lashes and the way his freckled nose grows pinker by the minute, he just looks too adorable glaring down at me.
"Fine," I eventually say. I'll try not to forget. It won't work. But I'll try. I can give him that at least. "Let me know when you get there, too."
He shakes his head, stoic frustration finally cracking away to that crooked, boyish smile of his. "So bossy."
He reaches up to tug an awkwardly tucked lock of hair away from the confines of his (now mine) lopsided hat, adjusts the brim another inch out of my eye-line, and gently coaxes my chin up just enough for him to press a fleeting, barely-there kiss to my mouth.
It's a smug, slightly hateful move.
He does it because we haven't talked about it. Because Theo's here, watching. Because he wants to make sure I can't do it first.
When he pulls away, my eyes flutter open too slowly. Too reluctantly. Remembering, too easily, how much I enjoyed the first time we were in this position.
An acknowledgement that must write itself all over my face.
Grayson's eyes gleam down at me. It's painfully obvious he's thinking I win or I see you or I had my tongue down your throat and you liked it.
I think it's the closest he's ever going to get to actually bringing it up.
"Well—" I bite the inside of my cheek. Don't you dare blush, bitch. "Bye."
I climb into the truck without bothering another glance toward him and his obnoxiously wide smile. After a thorough shake, I shift into drive and pull off the curb.
I wait a full block to spare a glance in the rearview mirror but when I do, my face is bright red. Just as I knew it would be.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
I know, I know, I know, but look! LOOK — they kissed ! And let me tell y'all: I had not realized previously how insecure I was going to feel about this chapter until I started writing it. Still have mixed feelings about it, but I'm coming to realize that's the rule and not the exception when it comes to my relationship with my writing.
But I hope y'all enjoyed it. God knows they did.
'Till next time (which won't be, like, a month from now, I promise) xx
—Amie