Page 4 of All Too Well
He moves quickly, lifting me in his arms. My legs wrap around his waist, and then the cold stones are against my back. He’s kissing me, his tongue delving into my mouth, and heat floods my veins.
Lachlan grips the skin at my waist, his body pushing me into the wall. We kiss and kiss, and gone are the nerves, now replaced with bliss.
He’s kissing me.
I keep saying it in my head because it doesn’t feel real or possible.
The whiskey taste on his tongue mixed with his cologne is an aphrodisiac that I could get drunk on.
Lachlan West is kissing me.
He moans, and I let his silky strands slide through my fingers like sand. Every sensation I commit to memory. The way he smells, the oak, tobacco, and chocolate scent that is all him. The feel of his calluses against my skin, slightly scratchy but absolutely perfect.
“Lachlan,” I sigh.
He groans and kisses me quiet again.
I don’t know how long this goes for, but I hope it never ends.
“Fuck, Ainsley.” His hand moves to my stomach, then lower. Everything inside me clenches in anticipation, and then, without warning, he pulls back.
His eyes seem to focus, and it’s as though he sees it’s me.
My legs fall from his waist, hitting the ground with a slap, and he takes two large steps back.
“What am I doing?” he asks, running his hands through his hair.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. What happened?We were having this amazing kiss, and now he looks as though he wants to throw himself in his mother’s fountain.
“We can’t do this. You ... I’m ... Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m drunk and we ... I’m such a fucking asshole.”
He turns his back to me, grabs the bottle on the ground, takes a large sip, and spits it out. Like he can wash the taste of me from his mouth.
I’m standing here now, feeling the tingle of my lips, the smell of him embedded in my nose, and I would love for nothing more than to not see that look on his face.
“Lachlan, I’m sorry.”
That causes him to snap his gaze to me. “For what? You didn’t do anything.”
“I kissed you.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m drunk.”
“I know.”
“I never should’ve kissed you,” he says, still not looking at me.
And I never should’ve come out here. I’m so stupid. I thought he wanted me, that he felt something, but he was just drunk.
God, I can never look at him again. I’ve ruined everything.
“It’s my fault.” I choke the words out, fighting back tears of embarrassment and self-loathing.
“No, it’s ...” He looks up to the sky. “Fuck!”
I stand here, my feet feeling as though they’ve been cemented to the ground. I want to run. To hide in my room and close the blinds so I never have to see this garden again.
“I should go.”
