Page 81 of Falling Like Snow

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind giving you more space. Your neck probably hurts from how you were sleeping. I can—”

“Sully, kindly shut the hell up,” he says, stepping toward me. “You’re not sleeping in the basement.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay. Fine. Then let’s get back because I am freezing.”

“Same.”

But just as we’re about to turn, we both seem to realize exactly where we’re standing, his gaze snagging on the mistletoe overhead only a second before mine.

Our eyes collide, both of us at a loss for words.

“Should we, uh…,” Asher finally says, trailing off as his gaze drops to the floor.

It’s so quiet, I’m certain he can hear my heart slamming into my ribs. Is this seriously happening?

I swallow. “Um, I guess it is the rule…”

His eyes snap to mine again, flashing momentarily with surprise. “It is… And we’ve never been great at breaking rules.”

“True. Except for being late to class this year—a rule we’ve broken several times.”

“Except for that, yes.”

“And I did break into the school last weekend…,” I add.

“Right. And that,” he whispers, one side of his face shadowed by the dark kitchen, the other lit only by the soft glow of the tree.

Neither of us moves. Unlike when I thought Micah was going to kiss me, I’m not worried about being horrible at it. Because even if I am, Asher won’t judge me. He’s the only person I feel completely comfortable with.

Plus, this means nothing.

It’s just a silly kiss between two friends under plastic mistletoe.

Still, I’m not sure how to kiss him without making it awkward—or at least any more awkward than it already is.

“Are you sure?” I ask him quietly. “It’s just a dumb holiday tradition. No one needs to know we ended up under here if you’d rather not.”

“Are you sure?” he says, answering my question with a question. “I don’t want your first kiss to be a throwaway.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, unless you and Micah already…”

“We haven’t. And I’m sure,” I say, probably too quickly. I clear my throat. “It’ll be good practice for the real thing.”

Something passes over his face, and he says, “Okay.”

We both stand there, perfectly still. Despite my reassurance, I get the impression he won’t feel like I’m sure unless I make the first move. So I take the tiniest step toward him, keeping my eyes trained on the front of his gray sweatshirt, my insides secretly fizzing, like a Coke and Mentos explosion. His throat bobs as I lift my gaze, now standing only inches from him. He tracks my every movement as I nervously lick my lips—then try not to worry that I just made this into a guaranteed slobbery kiss.

But Asher doesn’t give me time to fret about it before he leans down and presses his lips against mine. My eyes flutter shut, and after a stunned moment of frazzled nerves, my tense muscles relax. His lips are soft, and his body is radiating warmth. I sigh as I’m enveloped in the smell of him. Soap and spice and everything nice. I’m overcome with the most unbearable, most mind-boggling urge for more. Which must be why, when I feel him about to pull away, I reach up and cup the back of his neck, my fingers plunging into his hair as I hold his face to mine.

Asher stills for only one stunned second, then parts his lips ever so slightly, testing the waters. Our tongues meet in a reluctant, delicate exploration as my pulse thunders and my stomach knots. My thumb skims over the hinge of his jaw, and I nip at his bottom lip as the kiss becomes more intense than is probably socially acceptable under mistletoe—especially between friends. I meld my body to his, eliciting the most subtle groan from him. His hands find my hips, gently squeezing before gliding to my lower back, slipping beneath my baggy T-shirt. Trembling fingers graze my bare skin, sending electricity thrumming through my veins.

Suddenly I’m not cold anymore.

Tilting my head, I deepen the kiss, letting out the tiniest whimper when Asher presses me firmly against every solid ridge of his body. I pull my lips from his and kiss the corner of his mouth, then trail along his jawline, and then his neck, hypnotized by his ragged breaths.

“Sloane,” he rasps, startling me.

I rear back, and he steps away.