Page 80 of The Invitation
He takes my hand and jerks me to him, capturing my mouth with his. His lips crash against mine. His fingers cup my cheeks, holding me still. It sends the pit of my stomach spiraling.
He kisses me with a savage intensity, as if he’s been waiting on this moment for a lifetime.
I melt, succumbing to the moment, my body sagging against his. I want to fight it, to shove him away, but find myself responding to his touch without thought. It’s a challenge and a reward all at once.
“Ripley.” I breathe his name as he pulls away, my eyes fluttering open. “What the hell was that?”
“That was something I should’ve done a long fucking time ago.”
“What?”
I stumble backward, nearly tripping over his backpack.
Nothing makes sense. The world is fuzzy. I’m weak, confused,and desperate for more.
His breaths are ragged, and his eyes are wild as he searches me for an answer to an unknown question.
“I tell you how mad I am at you,” I say, my heart pounding. “And you answer that by kissing me? What is wrong with you?”
“You. You’re what’s wrong with me. You’re what’s always been wrong with me.”
“Oh, so now you’re blaming me for all the problems in your life? How fair.”
He laughs angrily. “Don’t you get it, Georgia?”
I take another step back. “Oh, I get it, Ripley. But don’t even try to use this kiss as something new to hold over my head.”
“Hold over your head?What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how the last time you kissed me, you did it to win a childish, immature bet with your little friends.”
His features harden.
“And how everyone at Waltham was laughing at me because I, the new girl, fell for you hook, line, and sinker.”
“Georgia …”
Now I’m just pissed.
I step toward him, fire coming out of the top of my head as I relive one of the worst nights of my life.
“You came up to me on the bleachers and asked me to dance,” I say, glaring at him. “You’d made eye contact with me all week at school, and I thought there’s a nice guy.Wrong.”
I stop a few feet in front of him, sliding his shirt sleeves up my arms like I’m about to fight.
“We danced and you were so sweet,” I say, “asking me about how I liked school, and where I was from, and what I liked to do. Then that jock spilled a cup of punch on my shirt, soaking it through. Do you remember that?”
He rubs his forehead.
“We go to the little nook off the cafeteria because you insist that I wear your button-up until my mom comes to get me,” I say, getting madder by the minute. “I take my shirt off and …”
“I kissed you. Dammit.” He groans. “Georgia, listen …”
“No,you listen. That little stunt hung over my head my entire senior year. The girls that came over to tell me that it was all a bet by the jocks, and you won?—”
“What?”
“—don’twhatme. I heard you all talking in the restroom. I had to go through what should’ve been my happiest school year known as the slut because you apparently let everyone think we did a lot more than kiss while I put on your shirt.”
