Page 72 of On the Power Play

"Probably anytime we see each other."

Delia couldn't think about what was happening to the nerves under her skin. They sizzled like a thousand wildfires were sparking to life, about to spread across her landscape with the faintest breeze.

She'd kissed people before, plenty of them. Grayson Pike was her first at grade eight graduation. Then it had been Merrill McKay in grade nine. They'd kissed more than regularly in the three weeks they dated, and she wasn't sure she'd enjoyed a single one of their encounters. He'd swept her mouth with his tongue like he was dusting his bookshelves.

Then there was Emile. Oh, Emile. That boy could kiss. He'd been her boyfriend for nearly eighteen months and his hands were always on her neck, her cheek, in her hair, or down the back pocket of her jeans. She'd loved his constant touch. Like she was petite and wanted. So predictable. That break up started her Degrassi and dry cereal era, which lasted for half of June and all of July 2016.

But how did Jack kiss? Once the question entered her head, she snatched it by the scruff. "Okay." Delia nodded.

It would be fine. Like he said, this would make their appearances more believable. Or, maybe she’d get lucky and he'd kiss like Merrill. It would permanently cool the slow simmer in her midsection when she thought about Jack touching her with those capable hands. That's all she needed. A thorough, repellant tongue dusting. Delia almost snorted and grabbed her glass of water to take a drink.

"Okay. Good." Jack yawned. "I should probably get going." He stood and took one step before noticing her expression. "What?"

Delia bit the inside of her cheek. "Nothing."

"You look annoyed."

"I'm not annoyed." She dropped her gaze and tried to rearrange her features. Why couldn't she keep her thoughts from writing themselves all over her face in permanent ink? She was absolutely annoyed. More annoyed than she’d been probably ever. He'd brought up kissing and worked her up to the point that she was hoping for his tongue to make her want to throw up a little in her mouth, and then, what? He just stretches his hands over his head and goes home?

Jack jammed his hands in his pockets. "You're annoyed."

"Fine, maybe I'm annoyed." How could he not recognize what he was doing to her? Yanking her this way and that and then waltzing out?

"Why?" He looked honestly confused, and that only pissed her off more.

"Because, Jack, you said we needed to kiss and now I've been thinking about how that's logistically going to happen and now you're going to leave and I'm still going to be obsessing about when we're actually going to start the regularly part. What if it's weird? What if you hate it, or what if I hate it, and we never make it look normal and then people are going to post it everywhere and they won't believe us when we say we're dating, and?—"

She sucked in a breath. Jack was standing in front of her. When had he gotten there? Delia looked up, surprised at how much she had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes at that distance. "What are you doing?"

He lifted a hand and brushed her hair back from her face. He didn't say anything, just let his eyes wander over her face. Her heart did something akin to the flute solo in Peter and the Wolf.

"What are you doing, Jack?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"A skin check."

Jack smirked. "Glad to know I've still got it. I thought women liked it when men took their time."

Jack’s palm was rough and warm against her cheek. Delia couldn't feel her toes, but that was more normal than she would've liked to admit. The more pressing concern was the way her vision was still blurring at the edges. "I don't know what women like."

"No?"

"I've never been in the majority." She swallowed, and the sound of her throat closing may as well have been broadcast over an amp. Jack didn’t seem to notice. His hand settled between her neck and shoulder, and as he ran his thumb slowly over her collarbone, Delia couldn't help her shuddering breath.

"Still terrible?"

"Mmm. I’ve had worse."

He nodded like he wished he had a pen and paper to take notes. “I think it might help if you were touching me.”

Delia blinked. Right. She was standing like she was ready to do a pencil off the diving board. She forced her arms up and placed her hands on his hips.

Something happened in that moment. She didn’t know if it was the soft cotton of his shirt or the feel of his obliques edged by the waistband of his jeans, but Delia turned from butter straight out of the freezer to butter that had been sitting on the counter for a week and was then spread over warm toast.

Her exhale was like every dying breath she’d ever heard in the movies. Rest. Release. Finally. Her skin fizzed like champagne, and she was that neon sign humming over the Jukebox as Jack’s fingers tightened around the back of her neck.

As he lowered his head—as he pressed his lips to hers—expletives strung together in her mind in one unending word that would’ve made Mary Poppins proud because Jack did not kiss like Merrill. He didn’t even kiss like Emile. His kiss was something wholly its own. Deep. Intense. Like he needed that moment, the feel of her, more than he needed air in his lungs. He raged like a hurricane, washing over her and pounding through her boarded-up windows until she was soaked through.

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