Page 37 of One Last Encore

Was she really doing this? Yes, she was. For her sanity. For the part of her brain that refused to shut up until she confirmed whether this was real or just an elaborate delusion of her own making.

With hesitant fingers, she reached up, barely grazing the side of his face. His skin was warm beneath her touch, softer than she expected. She traced the curve of his temple, and his eyes fluttered closed briefly. Slowly, she slipped her hand into his hair. The strands slid through her fingers, silkier than she imagined.

Her pulse roared in her ears as she tugged lightly, pulling him closer. The space between them dissolved.

Her breath hitched, and for a fraction of a second, she hovered there, heart pounding, lips barely brushing his until she closed the distance.

The first touch was featherlight, a whisper of contact that sent a jolt down her spine. The world seemed to slow, shrink, until all that existed was him.

Beck inhaled sharply against her mouth, his body tensing for just a moment, as if caught off guard. Then, with aching slowness, he kissed her back–hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment far too long. His hand slid to her waist, fingers tightening, curling into her like he needed her closer.

The kiss deepened, hesitation unraveling into something headier. Curiosity gave way to need. His breath warmed her cheek as he shifted, angling to kiss her deeper, to taste more. The slow drag of his lips against hers sent a pulse of heat spiraling through her, low and insistent.

She let out a quiet, involuntary sigh, her fingers curling tighter in his hair as she pressed closer, needing more. Beck’s hand traced along her spine, light and maddening, until goosebumps bloomed over her skin. The other cradled her jaw, his thumb sweeping gently across her cheek, so tender it made her ache.

The kiss grew bolder, more sure, his mouth coaxing hers open. When his tongue grazed her lower lip, it lit a fuse inside her, sensation exploding at every nerve ending. It was dizzying,electric. She felt him everywhere–at her fingertips, in the center of her chest, in the heat pooling low in her stomach.

The moment stretched, electric and endless, until–

The subway lurched to a stop.

She stumbled slightly, and reality snapped back into focus. Ingrid pulled away, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her skin burned, yet goosebumps prickled along her arms. She had been kissed before, but never like that. Never in a way that left her feeling like the ground had been pulled out from under her.

The subway doors whooshed open with a mechanical hiss. For a moment, she just stared at Beck, drinking in the sight of him, his parted lips, the faint smudge of her lip gloss on his mouth, the dazed look in his eyes that she felt mirrored in her own.

"You shouldn’t have done that," he murmured, voice rough with something between awe and restraint.

A beat of silence. Her stomach twisted.

Had she misread everything? The way he held her hand, the way he kissed her back. Had she imagined it?

But then, the corner of his mouth lifted. "Now you’re really stuck with me."

Relief crashed over her so fast she almost laughed. Her breath escaped in an uneven exhale, her gaze flickering to his lips again. His hands hung loosely at his sides, but she could tell. If she leaned in, even a fraction, he would pull her right back in. And that sent her heart careening.

She had expected the kiss to prove something. Maybe to confirm that her feelings were fleeting, that romance was overrated, that she had been right to keep her distance.

Instead, it had done the opposite. It had cracked something open inside her, unearthed something she had not even realized was there. The taste of him, the way his lips moved against hers, it lingered, ghosting over her skin, refusing to be ignored.

Panic gripped her chest. She needed to get out of here before she did something stupid. Like kiss him again. Or, worse, blurt out every tangled, embarrassing feeling currently having a mosh pit in her chest.

"See you next week!" she blurted, her voice an octave too high, way too rushed. Seriously? That was the best she could do? She might as well have thrown up a pair of finger guns and moonwalked out of there.

Before she could make it worse, which, knowing herself, was practically guaranteed, she spun on her heel and bolted up out of the subway door.

Behind her, the doors hissed shut. The train pulled away with a gust of wind that sent her hair flying, but she stood frozen on the platform, dazed, breathless.

Slowly, almost instinctively, she touched her lips. They still tingled. And that was when she knew. She was in trouble. Because beneath the panic, beneath the adrenaline, one thought rang louder than the rest.

She didn’t mind being stuck with him. Not as a trap. Not as a mistake. As a choice.

CHAPTER 12

BECK. MID OCTOBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

"Not like that, fuckwad," Rodney snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a whip.

Finn let out a sharp exhale, gripping his bass. "First, you tell me to play faster, and now it's too fast?" His glare was deadly, his patience clearly circling the drain after hours of unproductive rehearsal.

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