Page 3 of Taming Georgia

We sit on opposite sides of the table and pull out the project rubric and our notebooks, placing our backpacks on the empty chairs beside each of us.

“Are you going to the game tonight?” I ask him. I’ve never seen him attend a Friday night football game, which is odd because everyone else from our high school is there.

“No, I have to head to work in a bit. So, let’s make this quick, okay?”

His tone is kind, but the abruptness of his response throws me off.

I bow my head and focus on the paper from class. “Right. Quick. Sure.”

“Sorry, I just can’t be late.”

I lift my gaze to meet his. “It’s fine. I understand.”

I want to ask him where he works. Our high school is located in a very affluent area, and I don’t know many students my age who have jobs. But I don’t ask. He doesn’t seem like he’s up for small talk.

We get to work, outlining our presentation and splitting up who is going to research and talk about what.

“So, we have two weeks before our presentation?” His question is rhetorical because he continues, “We should probably meet up here again before we’re due to present, so we can go over everything and practice at least once. Does that sound good?”

I nod. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

Wyatt stands from the table and shoves his work inside his backpack. “Thanks, Peaches. Sorry to study and run, but I gotta go.”

I quickly place my work in my bag and step out around the table toward the closed study room door. “No problem.”

Wyatt steps toward the door, and I hastily step back in an attempt to get out of his way. My foot gets caught on my chair leg, and I start to wobble. Wyatt places a hand on either side of my arm, stopping me from falling.

“Whoa. You okay there?” His beautiful blues peer down toward me.

“Yeah.” I point toward my feet. “I just tripped.”

He doesn’t loosen his grip on my arms. I tilt my chin down to stare at his hands on my arms and then lift my eyes back to his.

He still doesn’t let go.

The hue of his irises seems darker now, like the blue of the ocean before a storm. He leans in closer, his expression almost somber. The corners of his eyes pinch together as he takes me in. His focus lingers on my eyes before dropping to my mouth and then back up again.

I notice him swallow, the skin of his throat flexing with the motion. Suddenly, I’m very conscious of the heat in his stare. My mouth feels dry, and my tongue peeks out to moisten my lips as I pull my bottom lip between my teeth.

Everything is happening in slow motion, yet I feel each small movement with such an intensity that my entire body aches. It’s a delicious ache. It’s new—this sensation—and I like it.

His hands continue to hold my arms. Our breaths are deep. When he exhales, tingles race down my spine, and I shiver. He slowly leans in, his eyes never leaving mine—until they close.

I mirror his action by shutting mine as well. Then, I feel it—his lips on mine.

They’re soft, warm, and utterly intoxicating. A quiet moan escapes my throat without warning, but I’m too turned on to care.

Wyatt Gates is kissing me, and it’s everything I hoped it would be.

His tongue gently requests entry as it runs along my lips, and I open my mouth, inviting it in.

God, yes.

Wyatt deepens the kiss. His fingers are gripping the nape of my neck, threading into my hair, pulling my mouth into his. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him close to me.

We kiss until my head is light and dizzy. I sigh when he pulls away, immediately missing the contact.

Wyatt leans his forehead against mine as we both catch our breaths.

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