Page 19 of Craved

I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the bed. “We have to be even more careful now,” I tell him. “If they catch us, they’ll separate us.”

“Never.” He moves to my side, then takes my hands. “Best friends for life, remember?”

I swallow. “I remember.” But I’m speaking to the floor.

“Hey.” His voice is heavy with worry. “What’s wrong? You do like it, right?”

“I love it.” I can barely say the words through the tears that are clogging my throat. “I just…” I trail off, terrified of saying the words.

“Cami?” He squeezes my hands. “Hey, you can tell me. What’s wrong?”

I tell myself not to be a coward. I basically flip the bird to the cops every day, and I’m worried about a few words?

But I am. I really am.

“You’re starting to—”

I lift my head and blurt it out: “What if I don’t want to be friends anymore?”

Pain—something close to terror—clouds his eyes.

“No, no,” I say, frantic now. “No, I don’t mean like that. I mean that I want—”

I cut myself off, terrified he doesn’t want it, too.

“What?” His voice is the most gentle I’ve ever heard. Even more gentle than the day we met.

I lift my shoulders, but say nothing.

“Hey” he says, tilting my chin so that I have to look at him. “I want it, too.”

At first, I can’t process what he’s said. Then I try to form words so that I can ask him if he means what I hope he means. But I don’t have to ask, because now his mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me, and it’s the most wonderful feeling ever. I don’t want to stop, but my knees are weak, and I pull gently away, my heart pounding as I whisper. “We need a couch.”

It’s only when he laughs that I recognize the worried expression that now fades. He must realize, too, because he shrugs, looking more shy than I’ve ever seen him. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

“Never.” I squeeze his hand. “But my legs don’t work when you kiss me like that.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That makes me sound pretty awesome.”

I bite my lower lip and lift a shoulder. “You already know you are. To me, anyway.”

He cups my cheek with his hand, and I close my eyes, soaking up the pleasure of his touch. When I open them again, I can’t help but gasp at the intense heat I see in his eyes.

“Cami, I—”

“Yes,” I say. Then I move forward and hook my arms around his neck. “Kiss me again.”

He doesn’t hesitate, but the first brush of his lips against mine is sweet, almost hesitant. I make a needy sort of sound in my throat, and he pulls away long enough to grin at me. Then he takes my hand and tugs me to the bed. “Your legs,” he says. “’Cause we don’t have a couch.”

He releases my hand, then climbs onto the bed, then slides up so he’s sitting on a pillow and his back is against the wall. I’m nervous. But I’m more afraid of letting this moment pass, and so I scramble onto the bed. I crawl forward, as if I’m going to sit beside him, but I change my mind and straddle his outstretched legs instead.

He looks at me, the heat in his eyes now raw and needy. I’m on his thighs, my knees on the mattress, and when I look down, I realize I’m only inches from the bulge in his jeans. Without asking, I reach out and press my palm over it. He closes his eyes and groans, and as he does, a wash of feminine power floods my body, making my core ache with need.

My whole body goes tingly, and I cry out with delight when he pushes me backwards until I’m flat on my back and he’s the one straddling me. He bends over, his mouth claiming me. His body caging me. His kisses are slow and deep, and his hands on my breasts are making me crazy, as is the way his hips are moving over mine, the way I can feel how hard he is through the denim of his jeans.

I have no idea if we’re doing this right, but it feels so good I don’t care if we’re missing every one of the important steps. We’ll get to them eventually, and there’s something about kissing him that makes me never want to stop. Because his kisses are magical. They don’t just make my mouth tingle, but my whole body.

My breasts. My thighs. My pussy.