He kissed me.
It was a kiss that rewrote everything before it.
His mouth was warm. The stubble at the corner of his jaw scraped the side of mine. His hand at the back of my neck was steady and unhurried, with nothing in it that said this was a thing he was rushing through to get to the next thing. He was kissing me because he was kissing me. There was no agenda underneath. There was no second move he was setting up. He was here. I was here. The kiss was the entire thing.
His thumb moved once along the back of my ear.
I let one hand come up to the front of his shirt. I curled it into the fabric just above his collarbone and held on.
He made a low sound into my mouth, quiet and involuntary, like a man being touched somewhere he hadn't let himself imagine she would.
He pulled back half an inch.
His forehead came to rest against mine.
He didn't move. I didn't move.
His breath was on my mouth. My hand was still curled in his shirt. The town below us was holding its breath alongside us, and it surprised me that a town could do that.
"Astrid."
"Easton."
"I've been wanting to do that since you stood in my backyard in a bath towel."
"You have not."
"I have."
"Easton Ford."
"I had to wait the polite amount of time."
"And what is the polite amount of time?"
"Five weeks, apparently."
I laughed against his mouth.
He went to kiss me again.
His phone rang in his back pocket.
He pulled back. He let his forehead stay against mine for a beat longer.
The smile died at the second ring.
He went still against me.
He pulled the phone out of his back pocket and looked at the screen. The blue of it lit the side of his face.
"Duke."
The smile was completely gone.
"Easton."
"It's Saturday night."
