Page 41 of His Last Shot
My hand skates around his waist as I pull him closer and press my mouth against his. It’s all the signal he needs. He intensifies the kiss as a satisfied moan vibrates from deep within his chest.
God, his lips are divine. Soft yet powerful. Smooth yet demanding.
This is our most intense kiss yet, and it’s perfection. His hand lands on my waist and squeezes as he pulls my chest flush against him while his other hand slams on the stainless steel behind me.
And that’s when I snap out of it.
Again.
I can’t do this. Because what happens next, after this world-altering kiss, is him leaving me as soon as he finds out about my RA.
A sharp intake of breath escapes my lips as the weight of this realization settles, severing our connection. His head whips back, eyes wide as he searches my face. Both of us are panting and out of breath. I avert my gaze to the floor.
“God,” he mutters as he pushes off the refrigerator door and takes steps backward. It’s as if someone has flipped a switch on all my senses because the noise of the bar fills the air. His kiss lingers on my lips as my tongue darts over my bottom lip, getting one last taste.
The chemistry and energy that were coursing through the air only moments ago are painted with uneasiness and tension. Seconds crawl by as I muster enough nerve to take him in. Johnny is having a staring contest with ceiling tiles. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed that.” I blurt out, but don’t mean it.
He groans, the sound heavy with frustration, with hands planted firmly on his hips, his gaze remains fixed on the drop ceiling. I wait for him to do something. Say anything. But he just stands there, trying to find answers in the air above his head, his chest rising and falling. He releases a long, weary sigh, the sound deafening in the quiet kitchen, before walking past me to leave. Without sparing a glance, he pauses at the threshold.
What have I done? He can’t even look at me?
He doesn’t turn around, his back a rigid, unyielding wall of muscle, but glances slightly to the right. “Please be careful, Rachel. Dexter is a bad guy. If you need any help at all, you can call me anytime.” Pausing, his back heaving, the unspoken words a heavy weight, he continues with a strained voice. “And just so you know, when I’m with you, I feel more alive than I have in my whole life.”
With that, he pushes the swinging door open, and he’s gone.
My hand shoots to my mouth, unable to stop the raw, guttural sob that bursts forth.
What is wrong with me?
My back slides down the refrigerator door, and I lose it, not knowing how my stiff joints will get me back up again.
Maybe I deserve to be at the bottom, feeling anything but alive now that he’s gone.
12
Drew Who?
Johnny
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve spoken to Rachel. Twenty-one days since the best kiss of my life—the pressure of her lips, the taste of her skin, the exhilaration of the moment. It’s branded into my brain and on my heart for all eternity.
I still show on tournament nights for my team, but I haven’t come in just because.
Just for her.
I can’t.
Being around her now is uncomfortable and as awkward as a cold weight that hangs heavy. One kiss, plus another rejection, and the world shifted from a blissful heaven to a fiery hell in her presence.
That kiss was my come-to-Jesus moment, let me tell ya.
And then, obviously, when I’m here, I help her at closing, of course. I’m not callous. I know she needs the help, and I will always be there for her.
Always.
But the ease we once had is gone. We barely speak, and I miss the intimate talks and time spent sharing a blanket beneath a star-filled sky in the bed of my truck.
