Page 76 of Icing Hearts

I resolve to make it my life’s mission to elicit this sound from him as many times and as frequently as possible until the day I die. And if he never makes it again, I’ll regret my failure to record it for the rest of my days.

So when—just before he kisses me—his eyes flutter to slits as he part moans, part gasps on an inhale, it does something to me. That something rolls up my arms, causing the roots of my hair to prickle and reverberates deep in my chest, settling into the depths of my stomach where it swirls like smoke. My ribs shudder and my ears tickle like when someone whispers too close. This gentle gasping moan cleaves my heart—because it sounds like he can’t believe this is really happening—and I want nothing more than to hand him the pieces.

For keeps.

Chapter 46

Clara

“Please, make that sound again. I beg you.”

“What, this?” And he does it. Close to my cheek this time. I feel my knees falter, and I sway backward. But he steadies me with one hand on the small of my back and the other gripping the base of my ponytail. When he finally seals his pillowy lips against mine, I’m certain the sound makes him taste better. Sweeter. Mine.

It’s utterly shameful that I cannot package up that sound in a pristine white box with a pink satin bow.

And then his lips meet mine, and he breathes quite deeply and quite long against me. It’s so long that I’m nearly convinced that will be that, and he’ll move away. One taste and then he’ll be rid of the urge for good. Morbid curiosity sated. But then his lips move against mine and the fit is that of a glove.

Soft. Exquisite. Natural.

For the briefest instant, all is right and I’m vaguely aware of fireworks going off somewhere, maybe only in my imagination or in my chest. I forget about the circumstances. Neglect the monumental issues keeping us apart.

We kiss.

It’s slow and tentative at first. As if neither of us believe it’s happening and he’s savoring the monumental lip lock as much as I am. His lips are soft and precise. They are sure and definitive, knowing exactly what they want to do and how to do it.

My heart leaps from my chest and takes flight, expanding and wrapping around me like a warm blanket. The way his hands roam, from the small of my back to my hips, to the back of my neck tells me he’s hungry. The kiss builds, and he grips me tighter, thumbs along my jawline, fingers pulling me close by the back of my neck. I let my mouth drift open, and his tongue finds mine, teasing relentlessly.

My fingers lace through the back of his hair, and I tug. Tory moans a cuss, and the realization that I caused it sends a shiver straight down my spine.

And that’s what leads me to ruin everything. For the first time.

He leaned his head back when he moaned and I say, “Surely that concussion is worse than we thought.”

“On the contrary, my mind has never been clearer.”

Tory leans in again, lips hovering over mine. Against all reason, I place my hand on his chest to stop him, feeling the heat emanating from his body and the droplets dotting his skin. He halts.

“Not here,” I whisper, gesturing to the hotel room balconies wrapped around the courtyard, towering twenty floors into the air. Kids from our team and others are gathered, sneaking booze and who knows what else. The hot tub that was previously soundtracked by crickets and waves now hums with the sound of voices and exaggerated laughter.

Tory nods. “Stay with me tonight. I’ll behave. Promise.”

“Must you?”

“No. I can be as bad as you want me to be.”

We grin in unison and I’m still in disbelief that this is happening.

He wades past me and leisurely climbs the blue-lit, concrete stairs out of the hot tub. Water trickles down his back in delicate streams, coursing over the tattoos.

Over my tattoo. My mark on him.

The same mark is on me, but on my heart where I don’t let anyone see it.

Tory reaches back for me and says, “Come.”

He hands me a towel before wrapping one around the shorts slung painfully low on his waist. Though he promised he’d behave, my heart thumps a hazardous rhythm. I’m about to spend the night with Tory. His intentions, and admittedly my own, are far from platonic. We’re lost in the moment, riding the wave of adrenaline from the kiss, and I giggle as we grab our belongings and skitter off to the elevator.

We stand side-by-side as the metal box climbs the floors at a snail’s pace, dinging every so often. At the fourth floor, the doors spring open and Thomas climbs on. I nearly jump out of my skin, but Tory’s eyes only shoot to the ceiling, a smirk playing across his lips. He’s delighted to be caught.

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