Page 87 of Every Beautiful Mile

My eyes narrow. “Do you think you’d filter the answer to any question I’d ask?”

I search his face as the reflection of the fire dances in his eyes. My urge to touch him—feel him—is as strong as my resistance against it. It’s as though I’m tied in a straitjacket with the laces pulled too tight.

“What would you ask?” he asks, throat moving with his slow swallow, pulling all the moisture right out of my mouth at the sight of it. Is swallowing attractive? I’ve never considered it until this moment where I find myself staring at the column of his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob along the length of it.

I shift in my seat, feeling a friction in my bloodstream. “I don’t know. Nothing…”

“Oh really, Penelope?” he asks, smirk tugging at his lips. “There’s nothing you want to ask me?”

“Is there something you want me to ask you?” I try to ask it defensively, but my voice is suddenly thick and my breathing shallow. Like we're playing some kind of game and I don’t know the rules.

His eyes drop to my throat and linger. On instinct, my hand grabs the ring that hangs there.

I flinch.

He notices. Another moment is split in two.

His head slowly turns back toward the fire, and his jaw clenches before he leans back in his chair and faces the sky.

“Do you know the constellations?” he asks.

“No? Not really? Just the basics, I guess. Love me a good dipper.” I hide my smile with a sip of wine before angling my face back to the sky. “You?”

“Not really.”

He looks at me, and I laugh at the ridiculous subject change.

Our arms drape on the armrests of the chairs, the closest they can be without touching, and I hate the distance and need more all at once.

I hook my pinky around his. I can’t not.

Setting my wine down, I face him.

“Ethan.” His name barely makes it out of the tightness of throat. “If you don’t kiss me, I think I might die. Like not in the melodramatic way, in the actual way. My body is physically aching, and I know that sounds…”—a breath whooshes out of me— “crazy or desperate or something. Maybe I am, but I just can’t leave without—”

He doesn’t let me finish my ramble before he cups his hands around my face and presses his mouth to mine. I freeze for a split second before wrapping my fingers around his arms and softening. His tongue swipes across my lip, and mine does the same, testing the waters before diving so deep into the kiss I don’t know if we’ll ever come up for air again. The way every cell of my body reacts to his mouth on mine is a bone-melting, life-altering experience.

The taste of the wine and smell of the campfire engulf me, and I know it will be a very long time before I can ever have either of those things without thinking of this kiss being permanently imprinted on my tongue.

He drops a hand from my face and traces the line of my neck before it rests across my throat. My pulse ricochets between my body and his palm.

When we finally pull our mouths apart, we’re panting. We’d run a marathon without leaving our chairs. I drop my forehead to his with a breathy laugh.

“That was—Wow. I didn’t know.” I shake my head slightly. “Thank you.” I close my eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked after a kiss before, Penelope,” he says, kissing my bottom lip and smiling against it.

I want to crawl on top of him and spend the night feeling him kiss me like that, over and over again. I need it. My body really needs it.

Instead, I sag back into my chair, my lips still tingling from where his just were.

“So, you haven’t dated anyone since your husband died?”

I snap my head in his direction at the unexpected question.

“Do people that date usually have to beg other people to kiss them?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“Why not?” He traces the lines of my palm with his finger.

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