Page 52 of Unwanted

Grabbing his face, I bring him to me, resting my forehead against his. “Stop being so hard on yourself. You deserve good things, Arlo.”

His eyes fall shut and I watch and feel his whole body expand on an inhale.

“I don’t want good things,” he whispers into the space between us. “I’ve never wanted good things. I just want you.”

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just let his confession blanket over us.

There was still so much to work through, things that needed fixing and explaining. A fight full of raised voices and harsh truths. He and I were nowhere near anything that remotely resembled a healthy relationship, but I couldn’t seem to make it matter.

We were here together, standing in the same room, sharing the same air, and it was impossible not to want him.

I did.

I wanted him so much.

With my hands still on his face, I tilt my head. “I’m certain this is a bad idea,” I say. “But I’m going to kiss you now, and if you don’t want me to or—”

“Frankie,” he interrupts, opening his eyes to meet mine.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Glancing down at his mouth, I waste no time claiming what has always been mine.

My hand curls around the nape of his neck, keeping him in place as my lips meet his and finally find their way home.

With his mouth on mine, I feel us both soften.

Our rough edges, our hardened hearts, our painful past.

We melt, falling into one another. Into a kiss of habit, a kiss of what used to be, and a kiss of what could’ve been.

Arlo’s body presses against mine, solid muscle backing me into the door. He effortlessly slides his hands past my waist and down my legs, gripping the back of my thighs and lifting me up.

With my legs around his waist, he settles himself between them, his hard length grazing my own.

My arms tighten around him, wanting to erase any and all of the distance between us.

I was in his arms and his mouth was on mine. It was what all my dreams were made of.

It was a kiss.

The most basic form of affection that could be the most underwhelming or overwhelming experience of your life.

I’d kissed a lot of men. Men I wanted to kiss, men I used to forget, men whose names I could never remember.

But nothing compared to this.

Nothing compared to Arlo. Not his mouth, not his taste, and not the way he kissedme.

He kissed like it was the first time, every time. Unhurried and thoughtful. And even after all this time, this kiss was no different.

There was no rush. No frenzy. No fire.

This was the slowest of burns. A moment to savor. A moment to remember.

His tongue snakes out to meet mine, and with languid strokes we bridge the gap between us. Each caress saying all the things that are just too hard to voice.

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