Page 77 of The Serendipity

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“I don’t know.”

With every syllable my lips brush against her hand, a sweet sigh of a touch. Have I ever been so delicate with anyone? Have I ever wanted to be?

“I want…” I start but can’t verbalize what I want.

Or maybewantis too small a word for the huge, strange things I’m feeling. Or maybe this room is too small to contain it.

I’m grateful for the tiny space, though, the uncomfortable ridge of the sink pressing into my hip, anchoring me firmly in the tactile reality of the moment. It sharpens my senses into blades as I hear the short gusts of Willa’s breaths, feel the rise and fall of her torso against mine, see the wonder and surprise in her face, an expression sliding heavily into desire. A mirror of my own face, I’m sure.

The moment is so poignant, it’s almost painful.

Before it slips away, as moments always do, I kiss Willa’s palm. Soft, slow, a lingering press.

Her gasp is quick and soft. Lids dropping low, her gaze tracks the movement of my lips as I lower her hand, guiding it to my waist. Her fingers clutch at my shirt, tugging me as though we’re not close enough. She’d have to climb into my skin to be closer, but I understand the desperation because it’s humming underneath my skin, a buzz in my blood growing harder to ignore.

I’m cupping her cheek without knowing how my hand got there. She nuzzles into me, eyes fluttering closed, her lashes resting on the apples of her cheeks. I want to count each eyelash, to study her delicate features until I could conjure up a completely flawless memory of her.

I think I?—

“Yes,” Willa whispers, surging forward a little until the door is against my back. Her eyes are open again, on my mouth again, still ink ringed in blue.

“What?” The question comes out strangled, almost a groan.

“You didn’t ask, but I’m telling you yes—you can kiss me.”

I don’t wait for another invitation.

Kissing Willa feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever done. The bravest … and also the most dangerous. I’ve counted no costs, run no risk analysis. Zero projections for long-term success.

The only thought in my head as my mouth moves hungrily against hers isWhy did I wait so long?

Not as in, so long since we’ve been in this bathroom, but why—and how—did I wait so long in my adult life, how did Ilivewithout this kiss?

WithoutWilla?

The thought is a pulse, driving my hand from her cheek to the back of her neck. She makes a little sound when my fingers reach into her hair. Not a whimper, not a moan. A new sound, uncategorized by labels and definitions. An elusive, rare new species I’ll name and keep completely to myself.

Her lips are soft against mine, her mouth sweet but noteasy. She kisses me like we’re arguing again. A back-and-forth that builds the energy between us as her hand yanks my shirt right out of my pants until her fingertips rest on the skin just below my ribs. They don’t move or explore, but claim only this space as though, for now, she’s satisfied with these few inches of me.

“Willa,” I groan, sliding my other hand up her spine, the fabric of her pink dress silky against my palm.

“What are we doing?” she asks, punctuating the question with a fierce kiss on the corner of my mouth as her teeth skim my bottom lip. “You don’t evenlikeme.”

I freeze. Muscles locking and breath caught and held.

Willa tenses against me, pulling back to stare up at me. My hands drop to her shoulders, squeezing once. Then again.

“You think … I don’tlikeyou?”

“Do you?” There’s so much vulnerability in her question, so much raw emotion, fear twining with the glow of hope.

I gently massage her shoulders, strong but so small underneath my palms. “Willa, yes. You are …”

I search for words. I wish I had the exact ones to explain the way I’m so impressed by her. Enamored. Her bravery in wanting to help me after I’ve been so snappish with her. The skill of her creativity and her ability to make sugar into actual art. Her humor and kindness.

“You are so Willa—as inWilla. Not Willow.”

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