Every movement he makes is slow and studied, his eyes watching as his hand works in and out of my hair, then runs along my arm again, feeling the bracelet against my skin. When Owen leans into me, I begin to shut my eyes, my lips quivering, ready to meet his, but his mouth keeps moving, finding my neck and ear first, his tongue taking small strokes along the way. I’ve watched Owen do this, watched him kiss other girls like this. And as much as I also secretly wanted to be in their place, I now know that I don’t want to be them at all.
I want to be more.
“Owen, I’m not Kiera,” I breathe, his touch halting with my words. His hands never leave their spot, cradling my head, but Owen’s mouth leaves my neck, his eyes serious when they come into view, his mouth a tight, straight line. My hands move to grip his elbows, to steady me in my moment of weakness, my legs threatening to betray me and send me to the ground again.
After several long seconds under his scrutiny, under the power of his gaze, he pulls me even closer, shutting his eyes as his mouth comes within a fraction of an inch of mine, his bottom lip grazing my top lip and sending a lighting bolt into the depths of my belly.
His mouth brushes against mine a few more times, each pass leaving me wanting more, forcing my lips to part, my skin to radiate with need, until finally he speaks. “You’re right,” he says, holding my head to his, our mouths ready, waiting. “You’re so much more.”
His mouth covers mine fast, his strong lips working my naïve and novice ones quickly into submission. His hands crawl around my head and body until he’s pulling me to him so tightly that it becomes hard to breathe, but air—breathing—it’s so unnecessary. I follow his lead, copy his every move, and grip him tightly, my fingers exploring the powerful muscles along his back and sides, feeling all of those physical things I’ve hungered for, until I’m stretching on my toes to reach him just to keep our lips intact.
With one swift action, Owen’s hand slides down the small of my back, to my butt, and he lifts me up against him, carrying me while he takes giant strides to his truck, our lips never once breaking their hold on one another. He sets me on the bed of his truck and shifts his hands up the sides of my body, his finger’s pausing at my ribs, his hands flexing with indecision. I can tell he wants to touch me, to feel me, and I love that his hands crave the feel of my breasts. The mere thought of him touching me there—in a place where boys who weren’t worthy have barely felt me—makes my mouth hungrier, and I put all of the passion I’m feeling into our kiss.
I don’t know when the back light clicked on, and I never heard the door, but when I let my eyes slip open, I notice. My wits are with me enough to realize that my mom is probably still watching this from somewhere inside our house. And while a small part of me doesn’t care, there’s another part that doesn’t want to talk about boys and kissing and what’s appropriate and what isn’t with my mother. Not that I mind talking to my mom, I just don’t want to talk about my beating heart with someone whose heart is broken.
“Dinner,” I breathe out one word finally—a word that makes no sense to Owen, and barely registers with me. Our lips part, but Owen’s hold on my face remains, his forehead resting against mine while he stands in front of my dangling legs, his feet shuffling with what I think might just be excitement and nerves.
“You want…dinner?” he asks, his lip pulling into a smirk on one side, a deep dimple impressing on one cheek.
“My mom. She said I could invite you for dinner. She’s…she’s been cooking all day. For you…and Andrew,” I say, my cheeks finally finding feeling again after the rush of heat that coursed through them.
“Is she trying to poison me?” he jokes, his lips giving mine one small peck while his forehead sways side-to-side against mine in a way that feels natural and familiar.
“No more than I tried with the grilled cheese. You seem to have a very high tolerance,” I smile.
“Well, I’ve had girls try to poison me before. I guess I’m immune,” he jokes, and I can’t help the way my lips slide into a frown at the mention of girls—other girls.
“Yeah, but I’m smarter than them. So I might be able to get the job done,” I say, swinging my legs just enough to lightly kick him in the knee.
“First of all, ouch! Don’t kick the knees. I’ve had surgery,” he says, as he lifts me from the truck, swinging my body around until I’m resting on his driveway, his arms still looped around my body while my hands are clutched against his chest, searching for warmth. “And second of all, you’re not just smarter than other girls. You’re…”