Page 44 of Light Up The Night
He rears away, shocked, almost distraught. "First…?" he breathes. "First kiss?"
"Yes, of course," I answer, hoping he cannot detect the tremor in my voice as I fight overwhelm—I'm feeling so many things. So many. Too many. "It certainly is not as if I have had suitors lined out the door, you know. I am no Penelope. Who would want to kiss a freak like me?"
"Hey," he growls, his voice gruff and angry. "Unh-uh. None'a that shit."
"None of what?" I ask. “It is true."
"That was your first kiss? Ever?"
"Yes," I whisper, feeling small and silly and childish. "I am quite certain it must have been a disappointment to one so experienced as you in the romantic arts."
"The romantic arts?" he echoes, amused.
"Do not laugh at me," I whisper. "I am confused and…and…frightened, and…"
"Not laughin' at you, sweetheart. Never that." He tucks flyaway curls behind my ears and brushes the pad of his thumb over my lips. "And sure as fuck not disappointed. Or regretting anything."
"Then why apologize?"
"Because…" he cups my face, shaking his head while dropping his gaze from mine. "My turn to not have the words."
"Then I shall return your words to you: Try. Please."
"I shouldn't have kissed you."
"Wh—why n-not?" I whisper, stammering as tears fill my eyes. "Am I not…"
"Oh god, fuck—no, no. Cadence,no." He kisses my eyes, and I must close them as his lips touch them, and I know he must taste tears. "You'regood, Cadence–you’re pure. So fucking smart. So accomplished. Wise. More beautiful than…than anyone I've ever met." He pauses, swallowing hard. "And I'm not. I'm not any of that."
"So you…" I put the pieces together. "You don't think you should have kissed me because you—" I pause. "I hesitate to put it into words. Becauseyoudo not feel worthy…ofme?”
I am so stunned that he could think something so patently ridiculous that I could almost laugh. It is no laughing matter, however. And he does not answer, not in words, but his lack of denial is affirmation enough. The way his gaze skitters off of mine is answer enough.
How could I possibly make him understand how I am feeling? The mad spin-cycle of thoughts and feelings in my mind leaves me wobbly and uncertain, like a newborn colt.
"Yes, goddammit," he hisses. "Yes! That."
I bring my hand to his cheek, and the rough black stubble is like sandpaper, but the skin of his cheekbone is soft. "Do you know how often I have wondered what my first kiss would be like? Can you begin to fathom how desperately I have wished…" my eyes shut on their own, watery and hot. "I am twenty-four years old, Riley. I have all but lost hope that anyone could want…that…anyof that, with me."
"I do," he murmurs, stroking my lips with his thumbs, my cheekbones as well, and each swipe of his thumbpad over my skin leaves scorched lines of tingling heat in its wake. "I don't regret kissing you. Direct opposite."
How do I tell him I want another kiss? My voice will not form the words, my lips will not shape them.
Where words fail, perhaps action might succeed.
I am not courageous enough nor bold enough to kiss him. Instead, I can only hope to communicate somehow that I would welcome another kiss. A longer one, even, maybe.
To that end, I draw together what little daring and resolve I possess, and shift my body closer to his. My breasts flatten between us, and I feel my nipples harden and tighten with anticipation and arousal. His hard belly rolls against mine as he breathes. I tilt my face up, find his eyes. Part my lips.
"So goddamned beautiful," he whispers, his eyes searching my face and lingering, lingering, lingering on my lips. "Tell me not to kiss you again."
"I will do no such thing," I answer. "Not when that is precisely what I am hoping for."
This time, I keep my eyes open. His hands cup my face, pulling me up to him as he lowers his mouth toward mine. A lifetime of fantasies and daydreams have not prepared me for this. My heart is wild behind the cage of my ribs, and I feel a delirious sort of wonder that I am here, that I am experiencing this,finally, that a man like Riley Crowe—rugged, rough, charming, debonair, impossibly handsome—is kissing me.
I gasp again when his mouth meets mine—shrill, breathless, shocked. Desperate for this kiss to last beyond an instant, I give in to impulse, sliding my hands around to his nape, diving my fingers into his cool, silky hair, trying to hold him here even for just a moment longer.
His lips are warm and soft and plump against mine, and I feel his breath, taste it. I clutch his nape and whimper when, instead of pulling away again, he tilts his face the other way and his mouth opens and his tongue intrudes into my mouth—which I seem to have opened instinctively.
