Page 46 of Back Outside Edge

It’s sweet, how entranced he is, and I can’t keep my hands off him anymore. I managed all day, but we’re in private now. So I set my hand on his thigh, pinning his beneath it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his eyes snap to me, then his hand turns over. Acceptance of the small gesture. And for the rest of the trip home, I hold Evan's hand. Just the movement of his thumb, running in small circles over my wrist, is almost enough to make me crash the car.

It’s nighttime by the time we get back to my house. Only the solar lights alongside the walk up to my front door break the darkness. It should seem a little foreboding, the hulk of my house a black contrast to the stars overhead, but instead it feels intimate. Like it’s only Evan and me in the world.

In the garage, we sit for a minute, silent. The car ticks its way back to cool. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance.

I glance at Evan, and he's staring forward out the windshield, as if the bare garage wall is somehow interesting. His profile glows in the reflected shine of the headlights.

And for some reason, I’m feeling all kinds of awkward again. Why doesn’t he say something? But he stays silent. "I guess we should go in," I say, not sure what to do with my hands. My feet. Any other part of my body.

He nods, still unmoving. Still not looking at me. Is something wrong? Did I do something? What? What could it have been? What's changed in the last ten seconds? "Evan, are you ok?"

Another nod before he finally, finally looks over at me. It's a brief glance, but it's enough to quell my nerves a little. He's not glaring at me, but he doesn't look angry or upset. Without a word, he opens the door and slides out of the car. By the time I follow suit, he's already opened the rear hatch, shuffling through it for our bags.

When he glances up at me again, hand hovering over my rink bags, I point toward my backpack. "That's the only one I need. Everything else can stay in here.” Evan nods, then picks up his own backpack as well.

He's so quiet. Why is he so quiet? What am I missing? There has to be something. I pick up the few things we bought over the course of the afternoon out of the backseat. A few tourist trinkets, a shirt that he fell in love with. Pastries for breakfast.

Inside, he sets our travel bags on the living room floor and watches me. So I set down our purchases on the kitchen table, weaving around the cats.

Since they won’t stop wrapping around my legs in ecstatic greeting, I take a few minutes to celebrate being home with them. Evan follows suit, until they’re lumps of writhing bliss on the floor. Because my cats think they’re dogs.

He still doesn’t say anything, though.

"Ok, what is it?" I turn away from Georgia, and back toward him, except that he's not where he was when I looked away. He's advanced a couple steps closer, leaving only an arm's length between us. That's a good sign, right?

He still doesn't say anything, but he holds out a hand toward me, waiting for me to take it. When I do, tentatively, a half smile starts to light up his features. It's still nothing like his usual sunny smile, but it's something. I try to search his features in the dim light. Fuck past me for deciding that mood lighting is better than overhead. It was a terrible decision. He’s just a silhouette against the darkness of the rest of the living room.

Using our clasped hands, he draws me toward him slowly. So, so slowly. As if he's giving me as much time to back up, back away as he possibly can. Or as if he's doing his best to make me deranged. Maybe he's fighting himself? Maybe it's a seduction attempt? If I weren't so nervous, the strong and silent commanding thing would probably be hot as fuck.

"Evan, talk to me. I'm getting worried."

The pressure on my hand increases, just a hint. Pulling me in a bit more. I follow it, taking a full step until we're nose to nose. His free hand lifts, coming to my cheek, then slides through my hair until he's cupping the back of my head. Shivers rake through my body. At the feel of his hands on me. At pleasure from his hand in my hair. At lingering doubt.

Why is he being so quiet?

My eyes dart from his eyes, down to his mouth, and back to his eyes. He's still in the dark, still impossible to read, all the harder because he's a heartbeat away from me now, but I'm pretty sure there's a smile on his full, perfect lips. He's enjoying this, isn't he? Making me sweat. The asshole. He's not upset; he's teasing me.

Fine, if he's going to play it like that, I'm skipping the rest of the game.

I lean in the last few inches, using our joined hands to pull him to me at the same time, and kiss him. A little harder than I expected, given he bumps into me, but that's fine. His lips are on mine, and they're everything I remember. He tastes faintly of peppermint and his breath smells sweet when it rushes out of him in surprise. The mint from after dinner.

Nothing is gentle about this kiss. His tongue licks against the seam of my lips, and I open for him. The hand holding the back of my head pushes me in hard, until our teeth crash against each other. He lets out a breathless little hum of laughter, and we ease up a bit.

The ship rights itself, and in an instant, the kiss shifts from awkward to perfect. His tongue tangles with mine, the friction shooting pure desire through me. I can't breathe through the sparks. The lightning his touch creates. It flashes through my body, and I'm already so aroused it's painful.

The first time we kissed, I wondered why I'd never felt that intensity before. This time I thought I was prepared for it. I'm not. We've been kissing for maybe ten seconds, and I'm already going to explode.

Fine, maybe all that brooding silence confusing shit worked for me. I'm still going to kill him.

After this, obviously.

Since one of my hands is still in his, I use my free one to follow his lead, pushing it through his hair. It's so much shorter than mine I can't grasp it. Instead, I pull on the back of his head, controlling his movements. The same way he is mine.

In theory. In reality, I'm just holding on for dear life.

It doesn't take Evan long to take control of the kiss. I surrender without complaint. With relief, even. Why does it feel so good to let myself fall under his spell? I've never been this person, this—submissive? I suppose that's the word for it. I've never wanted to be. But with Evan, I can trust him to take care of me. To do exactly what I need him to do. To let me relax into him and enjoy. It's heady.