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Oh.
Ohhhhh.
“It wasn’t real.”
At that, all thoughts of Chris Evans’ arms scatter, and I snap my head up. Our gazes collide in a rush of some undefinable force. It holds us hostage for several long beats.
And then I’m taking a step forward, then another one, and I’m backing Jeremy against the building.
His warm amber eyes are impossibly wide, and he’s shaking his head. “What are you doing?”
I plant my hands against the gritty brick siding, right next to his head, boxing him in, and I bow my forehead to his, sucking in a sharp, unsteady breath at the same time his hitches. I’m vaguely aware of his jacket shrugging off me, falling to the sidewalk in a heap.
“Mason,” he murmurs shakily, and I trace the way his lips move with each syllable, inches from mine. Lips I kissed.
In some ways, I remember it vividly.
The rain. The bite of vodka, the bite of teeth. The warmth.
In others, it feels like a dream.
A foggy, vodka-induced fantasy come to life, one I’d buried deep into the recesses of my mind before I was even really aware of what I was doing.
How do I shove it back?
Can I?
Do I even want to at this point?
“Are you sure it wasn’t real?” I whisper, my breaths coasting along his face.
There’s a distant sort of scratching sound, and a glance down shows him digging his nails into the brick.
His eyes fall shut, and the tip of a tongue pokes out, dampening the plush pink flesh of his lips. “It c-can’t be.”
I frown, rocking my forehead against his. “Then why…why am I sober right now, and I still want this?” My voice cracks, betraying me. “Why?”
His eyes open, and my gaze bores into his, pleading for something I can’t name.
“Jeremy,” I whisper.
He blinks rapidly. “I…”
“Jeremy.”
Pinching his chin, I tip his head back.
He gulps—loudly—just as I swoop down, dancing my lips off his in a featherlight kiss. A thing of nerves really.
A small whimper crawls out from the back of his throat, and I feel my lip tilt with a smile.
There’s a vice around my chest, and a fluttery sensation in my stomach. It’s familiar…but foreign too. Like a forgotten memory, just out of grasp, one I want to touch. Squeeze. Rip apart and dissect.
“Mason,” he croaks, mouth parting right against mine.
There’s the hot, slick glance of a tongue, and it’s all cinnamon heaven, combined with something richer. Something heady and distinctly his.
Chills explode across my skin, and I swear all the blood rushes to my head at once, leaving me dizzy. He shudders, and I shiver, and it feels like what I imagine it’s like when a star collapses in on itself.
