Page 95 of One More Made Up Love Song
“Ivy, is this okay?” he whispers, lips still torturously close. “We’ve never…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence because I know what he’s asking.
We’ve never kissed with no one watching.
Even if we’ve wanted it, there has always been some ulterior motive, some extra reason the kiss seems necessary. The press or the paparazzi, even just his fans.
But we’re utterly alone now. If we kiss, it will only be because we want to.
Because we want it for us.
For each other.
“It’s more than okay,” I whisper. “It’s exactly what I want.”
His mouth crashes onto mine with a fervency that’s been absent in all our other kisses. Even the one at Voltage, when we both got lost in the moment, pales in comparison to this. At Voltage, and every other time we’ve kissed, Freddie’s fame has been woven into the moment. I was always kissing the famousFreddie Ridgefield.
But out here, I’m just kissing Freddie.
He’s just a guy, kissing me at the swimming hole because he can. Because hewantsto.
And he does want to. I feel his desire with every brush of his lips, with every slide of his tongue as he takes my mouth over and over again.
Freddie wraps a hand around the curve of my waist, his long fingers splaying against my water-chilled skin. His thumb brushes across my ribs, and I suck in a breath, every spot he touches burning with new awareness. I want more of this, more of him, and a deep yearning pushes through my chest, then expands outward, filling me with peaceful certainty.
I love him.I love him and I’malwaysgoing to love him.
“Ivy,” Freddie says against my mouth.
I lean up and kiss him before he can move away, not yet ready to give him up. “Mmm?”
“This rock”—I interrupt him with a kiss—“is really uncomfortable.”
I laugh and finally let Freddie go, then use my hands to push myself up so I’m sitting. The sun has already fallen below the tree line, and a cool breeze blows across the water, making my skin break out in goosebumps. I glance at my watch. It’s just past seven, so we have a few hours before the sun sets completely, but the longer we’re here, the colder the water is going to feel.
Freddie must be thinking the same because he turns to look at me. “I’m suddenly realizing we have to getbackin the water to getoutof the water,” he says.
“Not unless we want to go on a really long hike,” I say. I nudge his leg with mine. “Come on. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. The longer we stall, the worse it’s going to be.”
Once we cross the river and make it out of the water, we make quick work of drying off and getting back into our clothes.
“From about two to four o’clock every afternoon in the summer, this entire rock is in full sunlight,” I say as I slip on my Birkenstocks. “We used to swim until we were nearly blue, then climb up here and stretch out on our towels and read while the sun warmed us back up again.”
“Sounds pretty magical,” Freddie says.
We head up the path, slowly making our way back to the house. Freddie is quieter than I expect him to be, and I start to worry, to wonder if he regrets the way he kissed me in the river.
It’s probably a stupid worry. But this is still so new, and we still haven’t talked about anything yet. I don’t know that I’ll stop second-guessing until we’ve talked about where we stand.
“Did I ever tell you I set up a retirement fund for my parents?” Freddie asks.
We step out of the woods and onto a wider path that cuts through the east field, so I pause my steps, waiting for Freddie to catch up so we can walk side by side.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “When?”
“Years ago. Right after my first solo album went triple platinum.” His eyes shift, looking out across the field to the mountains melting into the horizon. This late in the day, the fading blue of the sky makes it hard to see where mountains stop and sky begins.
I walk slowly, waiting for Freddie to continue, sensing that he has more to say but might need time to say it.
