Page 33 of Until We Kiss

“Totally.” He chews thoughtfully. “You rarely do stuff like this for me.” There’s no judgment in his tone, only a kind of curiosity, but it makes me stop and think. He’s always doing things for me. And like the cocky asshole I used to be, I took it all.

“I guess…” Do I go with honesty here? It feels wrong to lie. “Maybe partly I used to be a cocky dick. And maybe partly I was worried how you’d take it.”

He pushes his bite into his cheek. “You're not a cocky dick.”

“I could’ve been a better friend,” I say quietly.

Carter’s chewing slows. The sunlight cuts across the table and highlights his hair, the amber in his eyes. They aren’t dark right now, just the usual light-colored Carter eyes.

“You’re the best kind of friend,” he says.

I open my mouth, searching for the words. Fear rises, thick and swampy.

That lost feeling—that hole—is suddenly hovering right there.

I don’t know how to start the conversation about last night. About friendship. About what we are. About our lives and the universe folding together into some perfect plan.

Carter sets what’s left of his churro on the table. “We should talk.”

Okay, that was an easy way to start it. “Yeah, we should.”

“I can start. I, uh…” He blinks, frowns slightly, then presses his lips.

Shit, what does that mean?

He looks uncomfortable, like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say.

The breeze tugs at the tips of his hair. We’re both sweaty and crusty from last night. Hair mussed and lines under our eyes from the lack of sleep. He has faint impressions from his pillow stamped across his cheek, a bite mark on his chest from… oh, yeah. I remember that now.

Jesus, what if he dismisses all of this?

Thanks for the head, bro! Why don’t we pretend it never happened? What happens in Clua stays in Clua! You’re a good friend!

My chest aches.

“Carter, I?—‍”

Before I even fully understand what’s happening, he’s moving toward me. He catches the back of my neck, and his lips glue to mine. Like full onconsume.

He drags me closer, the chase lounge creaking. His tongue slips against mine, his hand squeezing the nape of my neck, and then he’s crawling on top of me, straddling me, our mouths not stopping, our hearts pounding.

We’re kissing in the brilliant light of the morning. Not hidden in the dark, not smothered by shower steam, but right here with palm fronds hanging all around us, birds chirping, the sun warm.

That doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean that he actually?—

His hand slides down and finds my dick, and something wells in my throat. Not a groan or a moan, but some kind of aching sound that spills into his mouth.

I groan. “We’re supposed to be talking.”

He bends to kiss the side of my jaw. He doesn’t stop massaging me. “You started it, bro.”

My hips kick. “No, I didn’t.”

“You bought me a churro.”

“Good point.”

He climbs off me, then yanks down on my shorts, and I spring out eagerly. He’s on his knees in a flash, his tongue dancing across my tip, and I hiss in relief, vaguely glad for the fat palm leaves keeping our area private.

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