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She pulled.

And finally—finally—his mouth found hers. His hand snaked its way back to the base of her neck, the other suddenly gripping her waist with an exquisitely indelicate force. She clung tighter to his shirt as his lips, warm and delicious, devoured her.

She breathed a tiny whimper against his mouth as he pressed against her, hard, eliminating every last atom between them that was not his or hers. She let her hands wander, lost in his silken strands of hair, nails scraping against his scalp and neck.

His groan nearly buckled her knees. And all she could think, beyond his lips moving against hers, the taste of his tongue in her mouth, and the commingling of breath that left her lightheaded, was:

Why had she waited so long?

Why had she fought this?

How could she not have known?

Chemistry, Alannah had called it. Chemistry didn’t even begin to cover it.

Aster’s kiss was hungry, starving, bringing Molly’s ability to think, and overthink, to a sharp halt. Her sole focus narrowed to the idea of more. More of his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. More of his hand slipping beneath the hem of her blouse. More of the almost silent, reverent noises he made as he consumed her.

She sucked in an enormous breath, head spinning, as Aster’s mouth wandered, worshiping her jaw, her neck, and a tiny patch of skin near her clavicle that made her toes curl. She didn’t even know that spot existed, let alone that it could send such tremendous heat coursing through her veins.

She arched against him, utterly adrift. And as she did so, her hips ground against his, a gift of friction. A curse slipped from his lips against her neck, and Molly nearly forgot to breathe altogether, her skin prickling and flushing and wanting more. She could feel the length of him, hard against her as he rolled into her again, and her brain came rearing back to life.

She wanted more, but she needed time.

She still felt like fractions of a person.

She pulled her hands from his hair, tiny moans still escaping her throat as his hips rocked against hers, his lips traveling a new path up her neck, leaving goose bumps scattered in his wake. She pressed her palms against his chest and pushed with what little willpower she had left. He shot back, space surging between them. He looked nearly as dazed as she felt.

“We should probably stop,” she said, hating the shape of those words on her tongue. Her lungs felt like she’d run up and down several flights of stairs.

He smiled at her, eyes glazed, hair falling forward into his face.

“Probably,” he agreed, slowly. But the desire in his eyes betrayed the lie.

She had to tear her gaze away, turning around. The flush crawling up Aster’s neck was one she doubted she’d ever forget. She opened the door and stepped inside, gait unsteady.

“I should go to bed,” she said. “Alone.” The clarification was more for herself than for him.

When she turned back, she saw he’d entered behind her and now leaned against the other side of the door. The other side of what had just exploded between them.

He almost looked like the arrogant Aster Bishop she’d once known. He gave her a wink. “I’ll be on the sofa if you change your mind.”

Shaking her head, she played it off as a joke. But a thrill ran through her regardless.

She returned the Polaroid of them dancing to its home on the refrigerator. And as she slipped down the hall and into the bedroom, she couldn’t help but feel like she was—and she did not think this lightly—entirely fucked.

Before

Molly froze, still blotting the tears from the corners of her eyes when the bathroom door swung open.

Justine Dawson froze too. Red splotches crawled up the side of her neck, mouth screwed up tight as if fighting off a wobble. Her eyes widened with surprise, which quickly morphed to horror, followed swiftly by a glassiness that obscured everything else.

In over a year of school together, Molly had never had a single reason to interact with Justine. She was a legacy student like Bishop, one of his close circle. They’d only shared one class, and they obviously occupied very different ecosystems.

Justine came across as a very serious, very intimidating person with excellent eyeliner, the longest, shiniest black hair Molly had ever seen, and no interest in high school social politics. She had a kind of I’m-above-all-this aura that was a little bit admirable but mostly annoying in that it felt like another flavor of Bishop’s superiority complex. Molly never would have pictured her barging into a bathroom on the verge of tears.

“Shit,” Justine breathed, before tearing open the nearest stall door and barricading herself inside.

Molly stood there, uncertain, as a stuttering breath followed Justine’s muffled sob.