Page 95 of Champagne Fizz

Kendall squeezes my hand. “I’m working on building up my tolerance for public affection,” she teases back, and I don’t know why it feels like the tables have turned, and she’s the expert walking me through matters of the heart.

But I just want to follow her.

25

KENDALL

The alley isn’t exactly private, but it’s also not public. It’s narrow, clean, and around the back of the building. Hidden.

Hidden enough.

I push Simon against the wall and kiss him. He moans at my aggression, arms wrapping around my back, crushing me against him.

The heat in me is real, but it’s also like a pot of water boiling—steady, consistent—if I keep an eye on it, I’m starting to feel like I can keep it at a low roar without boiling over.

Simon’s different today, more needy and less delicate. His hands don’t wait for my permission. His lips pry me open.

This is him with his shields down—confessing.

And I want all of it.

In some crazy twist of fate, I’m not the scared one right now. I need to be the one holding him. So, I kiss him harder. Taste his mouth. I channel all that heat that normally catches me by surprise into teasing him.

I press my weight forward, needing to smother whatever it is in him that he’s afraid to want, that vulnerable and scared part that he needs to let out.

The suit-dress I’m wearing fumbles and bunches against his fingers. It’s too much fabric as he clutches and paws.

He’s present.

I’m present.

And the whole world feels like it’s the landscape of our two bodies colliding.

“Kendall …” Simon pulls back gasping and looks at me like he isn’t sure who I am, or how it’s possible for the tables to have turned. His glasses are smudged from my assault, causing me to reach up and caress the side of his face.

“Simon …” I echo how he said my name, teasing his lip with my finger. A shiver unravels down my spine.

His eyes are blue sapphires: the color of sky and Bombay gin. He holds me against him a long time not speaking, the two of us just holding and breathing. There’s lust and need in his eyes, but also hope … and a soft tremble that isn’t coming from me.

I sweep my lips against his cheek, before finding his mouth again. We speak softly through the brush of our skin. This is important. This is us making confessions. This is all the intangible mess inside me saying,yes, kiss me, taste me, hold me.

I surrender.

We surrender.

“Kendall,” he whispers after we’ve been kissing for a long time, tongues intertwining, dreams filling the alleyway with clouds of heat and silence. “You haven’t …”

“I know,” I whisper, feeling the warmth of his breath. My fingers dig into his shoulders, and a little piece of me knew I needed to be the strong one in this, and he needed to give in to it.

The lack of fireworks downtown defies my understanding of my own body, but maybe … I’m getting better at controlling my reactions.

Of course, the heat hasn’t been turned off. My skin still craves his touch and my insides ache exquisitely. But I’m standing here in this heat—kissing—and I’m not Mount Vesuvius.

Maybe that’s trust.

Or maybe it’s something we aren’t defining yet.

“The things I want to do to you right now,” Simon growls, like my lack of orgasm has turned him ravenous.

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