Page 21 of The Space Between
His mouth trails over my chin and down my neck. He presses open-mouth kisses as he breathes into my skin.
I do the same, trailing my lips over the line of his jaw, peppering the scar that cuts through the beautiful perfection with soft kisses.
We kiss for what seems like hours, but we don’t go further. Not yet.
He stays pressed to my side on the towel until the sun shifts behind the trees and the air starts to cool. Neither of us says a word about what just happened.
Wedon’t have to.
It’sreal. It’snow. And it changeseverything.
Gruene
The feelof her mouth still lingers on mine. The taste of her still sits on my tongue.
Even hours later, standing under a cold shower that does nothing to settle the burn under my skin, I can still taste her.Feel her… the way she looked up at me, laid back on that towel—half invitation, half challenge… the way her body arched into mine like she wasn’t scared. Like she was just… ready.
She trusted me. She asked… practically demanded that I kiss her. And I did. Because I couldn’t stop myself.
That should scare the shit out of me. Instead, it’s all I can think about.She’sall I can think about.
I towel off, grab a clean shirt, and yank the cabin door open like the air outside might help. It doesn’t. The heat’s thick, heavy, slow—Hill Country summer pressing down like it wants to smother everything.
I drag my hands through my wet hair and stalk down the porch steps toward the river.
I need to move. Burn it out. Bleed it out. But she’s already there on the dock.
Blakelyn.
Sitting on the edge of the worn, sun-warmed wood with her legs dangling in the water, her hair loose and blowing in the breeze, and her eyes half-lidded like she knew I’d come, like she was waiting for me.
She doesn’t look surprised when I sit next to her. She doesn’t even look at me. “You’re running,” she says.
I’m sitting right here.
Flinching, I snap, “What? I’m fucking sitting beside you.”
She sighs. “Not with your body, Gruene. Youarebeside me, but you’re not. Everything else is sprinting.” She laughs but there’s no humor in it. It’s sad. “I’ve done it enough. I recognize it.”
I stare at the river, her words repeating inside my head. “I told you I wasn’t ready.”
She chuckles, but again, it’s not funny. “And I told you neither was I.” She’s also staring straight ahead.
“I shouldn’t have touched you.” I grunt.
She nods. “But you did.”
We’re silent. The lull of the water and the cicadas fill the air.
“You regret kissing me?” she finally asks.
I don’t. I should. It’s selfish because I’m not ready for whatever this is, and it is something, but I want it anyway.
I don’t answer.
I don’t know what regret feels like anymore. I’ve been stuck in it for so long it’s become the background hum of everything I do.
But this… her… that kiss… no, those kisses… it didn’t feel like regret.
