Page 9 of The Crush
“Let me do that,” I tell her, when she pulls away to start cleaning up. And though she does step aside, she stays close enough to keep a watchful eye on my efforts, our shoulders brushing as I pick up the pieces and sweep the rest away.
“How’d you know where the first aid kit was?” I ask once I’m through, meaning the question to be light enough to ease some of the tension in the air when we’re facing each other again.
I never should’ve let her in. I should’ve asked her to go.
“I’ve seen Tadeo grab it,” she says, stepping forward and taking my hand again to needlessly double-check her work. The bandages are still perfectly tight and secure. “Cut his arm on something last winter while we were over.”
“Right.” Shame simmers in my stomach as I ease my hand out of her grasp and think about how I should’ve been here, too. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She drops her hands in front of her, squeezes them together so hard I’m afraid we’ll also end up needing to patch her up. “You know, if you, um, wanted to talk about… You don’t have to,” she amends quickly, and I wonder if the apprehension I feel crawling up my spine is as apparent as it feels. “But if youwantedto talk to someone about any of it,I—”
“Because that’s what you need. All that shit in your head,” I say, coolly. “You don’t even know the things you’re asking to hear about.”
All of it comes out far harsher than I intended, and she flinches as if I’d struck her, her gaze falling to the floor. I hate myself for it when I thought I’d run out of reasons to do so.
“I’m sorry, Isabel.” I reach out and cup her chin so she’ll look at me again, so she’ll hopefully see that I mean it. “I appreciate you asking, but I’m fine.”
“I do actually knowsomethings about it,” she says quietly, and I wonder if she even realizes the way she’s relaxing into my touch. The way her eyes go hazy when my thumb grazes her cheek. “I’ve read about it, and Iknowthat’s not the same…but I do know.”
She’s looking at me again like somehow shedoesknow. As if she’s not seeing me as headlines on a page with only half the story or as the only son who ran away from home. As if she sees someone still worth seeing.
It’s more intoxicating than any pull I could take from a bottle, the siren song of a coping mechanism that might actually make it all stop…only for a bit.If it could only stop for a bit.
My hand shifts of its own accord, fingers falling into known patterns, moving from beneath her chin to along her jaw to the nape of her neck. She sighs, and my thumb traces her mouth, dragging at the soft, moldable flesh.
One last inhale. Then I condemn myself to hell.
Eight
Isabel
His mouth meets mine with a faint brush at first, his thumb still pressing at my bottom lip, testing, as if he’s not sure if I’ll tell him no. I suppose Ishouldtell him no. But right now I can’t think of a single good reason why.
I justwanthim. I’ve wanted him for so long that it’s part of me. And all I can do now is try to remember how I am supposed to dothis, to kiss and to be kissed.
But I’ve never hadthis.
I’ve never hadthisbecause I’ve never hadhim.
The longer he kisses me the more it feels like he’s asking for all the things I want to give him, and when he puts a gentle guiding pressure on my jaw, I open for him and let him take.
“Jesus, you really are sweet,” he murmurs, and he kisses me again, deeper this time, hungrier. He tastes like the whiskey he’s been drinking, and I wonder if I kiss him long enough, if I can get drunk on it, too.
When I rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him back, he hums in approval, making me smile, and it nearly kills me when he smiles back. He presses closer into me, never breaking away as he backs us up until we reach the counter. “Come up here.”
Both his hands dip to my waist before lifting me up onto the countertop, and once there, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pleased when his body finds its place between my legs and my fingers find their way into his hair. I gently tug the thick, wavy strands in my haste for more, and he groans, nipping sharply at my bottom lip. The spark of heat it sends through my system makes me gasp, and immediately he pulls back. “I hurt you?”
I shake my head, chasing his mouth with mine, but he nudges first my nose with his and then my jaw. My head tilts back so that his mouth can find my neck, so that he can slowly work his way down to the hollow of my throat. When he drags his tongue over the dip there, I let out a small whine.
“Fuck, bonita, I like when you make that sound.” His hands move to my bare thighs, wrapping my legs around his waist, and I feel like I’m floating and falling all at once when his head moves lower and his hands move higher, and I—
We both hear the front door open at the exact same time.
“Shit.“ Daniel steps back, helping me off the counter as he goes. And I have barely enough time to brush the wrinkles out of my dress and finger comb my hair into some semblance of order before his dad walks in. Tadeo halts as suddenly as he entered when he sees the two of us in the kitchen, standing several feet apart but undoubtedly looking flustered.
“Daniel cut his hand,” I rush out, gesturing to the first aid kit on the counter as if it could possibly explain why I’mpanting.
“That so?” Tadeo says, his eyes slowly moving from me to Daniel as he walks farther into the kitchen and tosses his keys onto the table. “How’d that happen?”
