I sit down on the bed next to her and, without understanding why I’m doing it, I stroke her hair…like I’m stroking a kitten. She rolls over and looks at me, then sniffs loudly. “Turn off the light and come back here,” she whispers.
I do as she asks and then feel my way back to her bed. She reaches out, grasps my wrist and tugs. I think this means she wants me to sit on the bed again. I do so, but she tugs again. “Would you lie down next to me? I just need to be with someone right now.”
Someone? Just anyone? Or…me?
In spite of those questions whirling around in my brain, I lie next to her. But I try not to touch her. In seconds, she has scooted over, resting her head on my shoulder, pulling my other arm around her.
I’m so tense that I’m sure she can feel it. She shifts her head, settling closer against me, and I can smell her hair again. That same smell. It fills me with…something. Makes it seem as if my blood is speeding up, rushing through my veins faster. And it’s hard to swallow, too.
“Relax, Wil. Take a deep breath. Or does this bother you? Would you rather not be touched?”
I inhale a deep breath and let it go. She adjusts her head to look at my face, though it’s dark so I can’t imagine what she can see. I can’t see her very well, either, but I can definitely smell her. The cloud of her scent enveloping me. It’s enough to cause vertigo. And it really does feel like the room is spinning.
I clear my throat. “Why are you crying, Jenna? Are you sad about your tiara?”
She shakes her head and is silent for a long time, then she sniffs again and swipes a hand across her cheek before leaning into me. “I get like this sometimes when I drink too much.”
“Drinking makes you sad?”
“Only if I’m sad before I start drinking. It just amplifies it.” I picture a microphone echoing in a loud room, screeching, hurting my ears. Her sadness is hurting her like that?
“Then you shouldn’t drink when you’re sad.”
She lets out a quiet, gentle laugh. “Impeccably logical, Wil. You should have been a Vulcan.”
“I’ve been told that before. Why are you sad?”
She’s suddenly still and very quiet, then she shrugs. “Just a long day…got off to a bad start. I’ll be okay once I sleep it off.”
I turn my head but just slightly. Her hair is tickling my nose, so my choices are to turn away so I no longer feel it or press my face more firmly into her hair. I chose the latter. I’ve heard of people talking about a “head rush” before—this must be what they’re describing.
Jenna’s hand is moving across my chest. It’s a light, fluttery touch, and I hate that it makes me uncomfortable. I capture her hand under one of mine to stop it.
“Do you not like that?”
I take a moment to think about the question and how I want to answer it. “I don’t like light touches. It feels like my skin is crawling.”
“So you don’t like to be touched at all, or…?”
“I don’t like to be touched lightly.”
Suddenly, the pressure from her hand increases as she presses harder. My heart starts to race directly under her hand, which rests firmly on my sternum.
“How’s that?”
“Better,” I answer, but my voice is a rasp. It’s suddenly harder to speak and my mouth is dry. I’m almost obsessed with the thought of kissing her again.
It’s a weird word, kiss. With so many different meanings, it confuses me sometimes. A kiss can be a kind of chocolate, it can be a kiss of death, it can be truelove’s kiss. It can be the chaste pressure of lips against a cheek in greeting or a momentary show of affection. But that same word can also describe incredible, unfathomable passion. Like Jack and Rose’s forbidden kisses in Titanic, though their love was a doomed one. Or that expression of undying love and a promise of self-sacrifice, like Arwen’s promise to Aragorn when she declares she will give up the immortal life of an elf in order to be with him as a mortal.
“Was that true…what you said during the game?” she says in a quiet voice.
“I don’t recall lying during that game.”
“When you said you’ve never slept with someone—I mean…are you a virgin?”
I think about how I want to answer that question, and the silence stretches on.
She shifts, turning toward me. “I don’t think less of you because of it, if that’s why you aren’t answering. In fact, it’s just the opposite.”
“Really?”
“I’m actually just surprised. You’re very handsome. There are women in the clan who would jump at the chance to…jump you.” All that does is produce images of people jumping in my mind—on a pogo stick, on a trampoline, off a cliff—though I’m vaguely aware that she’s referring to sex and not actual jumping.
“I’ve had the opportunity. I chose not to.”
Her head lifts from the pillow. “Really? You didn’t want to?”
“I want to. With the right person.” I wait for her to react in the number of ways I’ve heard before…disbelief or disgust or with questions about my sexuality.
“That means that sex means more to you than it does most guys.”
She’s right, and something inside of my chest twists at her words. It sounds as if she admires that difference, which has been both a blessing and a curse to me in my life. I am different.
But Jenna understands me. It’s been a long time since anyone really has.
And I can no longer resist. I want more of what we shared last weekend. I turn to her and press my mouth to hers. She lets out a little gasp, and I might have pulled away if I wasn’t already desperate for her.
Chapter 11
Jenna
William’s tongue breached my lips, slipping in effortlessly without asking permission this time. He’d assumed authority and I happily ceded it to him—even more happily when his hand slid from my head, down my back, to my hip and then slowly to my butt.
What the hell was this? My body was trembling like I was the virgin, not him. Suddenly, I couldn’t catch my next breath. There was so much here in this moment, and I was almost overwhelmed by the swift rush of feelings.
I wasn’t drunk on liquor anymore. I was drunk on him. His smell. His taste. The feel of his hard, masculine body beside mine.