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Her words slam into me harder than a punch to the solar plexus.
I don’t want my first kiss to be the result of an obligation. I want it the way I’ve dreamed it since the first time I watched a rom-com after my liberation. When I have my first kiss, the woman’s body should be pressed close to mine of her own volition, her eyes should flutter closed so she can lose herself in the moment, her fingers should comb through my hair because she wants more of me than a mere kiss can provide.
“I rescind the offer.” After rising, I back away. “You do the dishes while I… read a book. That’s a fine reward for winning a bet.”
When she’s silent, I risk a glance and find her hazel eyes lasering toward me.
“Why did you rescind your offer, Sylas?”
“You want the truth?” I don’t know how to handle whatever is happening here. Would a real human tell the truth? I’m out of my depth. Lost.
“Absolutely. I want the truth.” Her face is stern, although maybe it’s serious. I’m woefully ill-equipped to navigate anything resembling a relationship with a woman. That has to be why I wasn’t chosen for the group of twenty splicers who were the first to integrate with the women, why I was relegated to the reject barracks.
Having no special ability to read minds and nothing in my history of human interactions to fall back on, the best I can do is to take her at her word. She wants the truth? I’ll give it to her.
“I want it as much as I want air to breathe, but it’s clear I’ve fucked everything up between us.” An exasperated breath heaves out of my mouth.
“I want it, too, Sylas. I want the kiss, but that’s all I want right now, and you’re in heat, or rut, or… whatever. So you tell me. Can you kiss me and then deal with,” she gestures up and down my body, “whatever powerful thing is going on underneath your skin when you get nothing more than a kiss?”
“Yes.” My answer is immediate, although I have no idea if it’s the truth. One thing is certain, I would never hurt Cally. Never.
Chapter Seventeen
Cally
He wants this kiss more than he wants air to breathe? Guess what? I do, too.
“Let’s kiss like this.” He gestures at our positions. We’re on opposite sides of the two-foot-wide bar. “It will be safer.”
Could he be any cuter with his eager, sparkling eyes and unfettered optimism that this will all work out even though we both know it’s a terrible, dangerous idea?
When we lean forward to kiss, we’re at such odd angles that his antlers are almost parallel to the floor. This pulls a chuckle from both of us, since it will ensure this will be the least romantic kiss in the history of the world.
After his clever ideas with book titles, it doesn’t surprise me when he’s quick to suggest a solution. He strides around the counter, opens his arms, and asks, “May I?”
Although I haven’t a clue what he wants, I nod. He chastely grips my waist and lifts me to a kneeling position on the upholstered stool so I’m taller than if I were simply standing.
Inspecting me, he murmurs, “That should work,” then hurries back to his original position across the bar from me. With a close-lipped smile stretching across his face, he leans toward me.
Because he’s never even met a woman before today, plus the whole rut thing, I assumed he would go for the gold and jump straight into the lip-on-lip action. To the contrary, his actions slow to a stop when his face crosses the midway point of the countertop.
“There’s no time limit, right? I mean, I get one kiss, but…”
“It’s not a timed event. No,” I reassure him, hoping I successfully hid my smirk.
He exhales heavily. “Good. Because I’ve neglected to tell you how beautiful you are, Calliope Quinn.”
I don’t interrupt to inform him that might be a bit of an exaggeration because I’m the only woman he’s ever been in the same room with.
Perhaps he read my mind, because he says, “Don’t sell yourself short. I may not have met any women before, but I’ve had access to the Internet for years. I’ve seen thousands of women. Beautiful women. Supermodels. No one’s as… breathtaking as you. I think it’s that you’re a triple threat.”
He cocks his head and takes my measure as though he has all the time in the world, as though his hormones aren’t insistently racing through his body demanding far more than conversation. He’s simply eating me up with his gaze, those whisky-brown eyes shining as if lit from within.
“You’re pretty. Of course, that’s a given.”
It is?
“But you’re so genuine. And although we got off to such a bad start with the phone and key incident, you’re capable of intense honesty. And you possess such ferocious bravery.”
