Page 73 of For Keeps. For Always.

Her head stops moving. “This!” she yells. “Whatever the hellthisis. Not again.”

I hate the way her voice cracks, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t reassure her. I can’t tell her this isn’twrong.I can’t even tell her whatthisis. I’m as lost as she is. Searching for a semblance of light in the cavernous hell of my mind.

Irritated by my silence, she pushes my chest. “Nothing to say now?” she cries.

Her brown eyes shine in the bright light of the elevator with unshed tears afraid to spill.

“Nothing?” she repeats, her small fists balled at my chest, pushing and shoving.

Grabbing her wrists, I feel choked by my own uncertainties.

“I hate that his lips have touched yours,” I whisper, giving in to the devil inside me that’s telling me I need her. “I hate that his lips have erased any touch of mine.”

Her jaw wires shut, the intensity in the gesture hollowing out her face. “Stop it.”

With a quick yank, I pull her against my body, tasting the sharp exhale of air as it dances across my face.

“Iwant to kiss you. I wantmylips to stain yours,” I threaten. “I want him to have to taste me, knowing that your lips have never tasted as good as they do with me all over them.”

The line of her throat bobs heavily. The thick flutter of her pulse like a butterflyjustbeneath her skin.

“Tell me you don’t feel the same way,” I demand, listening to her heavy swallow that echoes between us. “Tell me,” I grit against her lips when she remains silent.

“I hate her,” she spits, eyes trained on my lips. “I hate that she has more right to touch you than I do. I hate the way your hand rests against her lower back, touching her, guiding her.”

“Like this.” Pressing my palm against her lower back, I pull her flush against my body.

“Yes,” she breathes reluctantly.

Our lips hover over one another’s, both too scared to take that fall into the unspeakable.

We’re drunk. There’s no denying that. The champagne we’d overdosed on has lowered our inhibitions and pushed us into a place of pain and regret.

Henley’s cheeks are flushed, the scattering of freckles on her face highlighted by the rosy effect of alcohol and the buzz my touch offers her.

Her tits push against my chest, the hard cut of her nipples visible through the silk line of her dress.

I watch the way her eyes remain fixated on my lips. The flare of desire and regret swirling into something dangerous.

“We can’t.” Her tongue darts out to touch my top lip, and I swallow down the growl rumbling in my throat.

“We could,” I counter. “We just likelyshouldn’t.”

She tastes like champagne when her lips close the distance between us. The sweet tease of bubbles that, when paired with Henley, sends me to insanity.

Our kiss isn’t rushed. It’s not panicked, but it’s in no way delicate either. It’s dripping with lust, overruled by an overwhelming need toconsume.

The soft roll of her tongue hits deep in my mouth, and I groan.

She pulls back. “We should stop,” she says as she reaches up, her teeth biting into my bottom lip and pulling on it painfully.

A rumble echoes from my throat.

“Today isn’t ours.” I let her tongue lick along the seam of my lips.

She’s right. Of course. But todayneverseems to be ours.

Not at seventeen.

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