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"Given the circumstances, I think we can let that slide." She swallowed, because he wasn't looking away. "It's been a while. Since . . . you know. Bishop put you behind bars."
"I did notice," he said, deadpan. "Are you asking if I have any wild men-behind-bars stories to tell you?"
"What?" She felt a blush start to burn along her jaw-line, then spill over her cheeks. "No! Of course not! I just . . . I don't know if - "
"Stop stammering."
"You make me stammer. You always have, when you look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm dessert."
He licked her on the nose. She squealed and pulled back, swiping at the moisture, but then he was holding her, and his lips were warm and soft and damp, pressing on hers with genuine urgency. He didn't taste like dessert, not at all; he tasted like she imagined really good wine would taste, dark and strong and going straight to her head. Her muscles warmed and purred where he touched her, and it felt like, just for a moment, there was nothing in the world.
Nothing but this.
He broke off the kiss and pressed his hot cheek against her burning one; she felt his breath fluttering the hair above her ear. She felt him draw in a breath to say something, but she got there first.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't tell me all the reasons why this isn't a good time, or a good idea. Don't tell me we ought to be thinking about your dad or my parents or what Bishop is doing right now. I want to be here with you. Just . . . here."
Shane said, "Well, I don't want to be here."
The world went out of focus, and her heart shattered. She'd known it was coming; she'd known that he'd changed his mind, that all that time apart had given him time to think about what he wouldn't like about her. . . . Why would somebody like Shane love her, anyway? He'd dated other girls. Better girls. Prettier and smarter and hotter. It had just been a matter of time before he noticed that she was a skinny geek.
But it hurt; oh God, it hurt so badly, like she'd been stabbed with a dagger made of ice.
She couldn't help the tears that flooded her eyes, and she couldn't hold back the sob. Shane went tense, and pushed her back to arm's length. "What?" he asked. "What did I say?"
She wanted to tell him it was all right, but it wasn't, it just wasn't, and it never would be. She felt like half of her was dying, and he looked at her in confusion and acted like he didn't understand what he'd done to her.
Claire scrambled away from him and bolted. It was usually Shane who ran away, but this time, she couldn't stay. She couldn't stand to be here, humiliated and stupid and hurting, and try to be nice to him, even though he needed it. Maybe even deserved it.
"Claire!" Shane tried to get up, but his feet wouldn't stay under him. "Dammit, wait - my legs went to sleep; wait! Claire - "
She didn't wait, but somehow, he managed to follow her, lunging after her with feet that must have been like running on concrete blocks. He tripped into her and they fell onto the couch. Claire smacked at him and tried to struggle free. "Let go!" she said around her sobs. "Just let go!"
"Not until you tell me what just happened. Claire, look at me. I don't understand why you're upset!"
He really didn't know. He was all but begging her to tell him. All right, then, fine. "Fine," she said aloud, in a voice that trembled more than she wanted. "I get it. You don't want to be with me right now. Maybe not ever. I understand, it's been a long time, and . . . your dad . . . I just . . . I can't . . . Oh, just let me go!"
"What in the hell are you talking about?" And then he got it. She saw him run it through his head, and his eyes widened. "Oh my God. Claire, you thought I meant I didn't want - No. God, no. When I said, 'I don't want to be here,' I meant I didn't want to be there. You know, sitting on the cold floor with my ass turning into an ice-berg. I wanted you. I just wanted you somewhere else." He shook his head. "I meant it as a joke. I was going to say, 'I want to be on the couch.' Okay, it was stupid, I know. Sorry. I never meant you to think - Wait. Why would you think I'm not into you, anyway?"
Because I'm a girl, Claire thought. She was barely able to contain the relief welling up inside her. Because we're all stupid and insecure and think that we're never, ever good enough. She didn't say that, though. Some things it was better for boys not to know. "I just . . . It's been a tough day." She was still crying, and she couldn't seem to stop. "I'm sorry, Shane. I'm sorry your dad - "
"Hey." He touched her cheek. "It's bad, but I can deal. I'm more worried about you."
He always was. "Why?"
He wiped away the tears that trickled down her cheeks. "Because I'm not the one doing the crying, for one thing."
She nodded, shuddered, and started to gulp back the sobs. He waited, holding her, until she was finally quiet - relaxed in a way she hadn't been before.
Weirdly happy just to be here, with him, no matter what had happened or would happen. This moment, she thought. This moment is perfect.
"Shane?" she asked. She felt drowsy now, lazy in the warmth of his body.
"Yes?"
"Do you have any wild men-behind-bars stories?"
"Not really. Sorry to tease you," he said, and traced his finger down her cheek and over her lips. Slowly. "You know I spent a lot of time thinking about you, don't you? About how you look, how you smell, how you taste . . ."
"Creepy stalker boy."
He kissed her. There was something new in it, something fierce and hot and wild, and she felt needs explode inside her she didn't even recognize. Her whole body lifted, like she'd become metal to his magnet. Shane groaned and rolled her over on her back, his weight on top of her, and kept on kissing her like it was the most important thing in his world.
His lips left hers gasping for air, and traveled down her neck, around the collar of her T-shirt, and his hand dragged the fabric down to expose more skin to his kisses.
Off, Claire thought incoherently, and tried to pull the hem of her shirt up.
Shane's hand stopped hers. She looked up at him.
"Not here," he said. She waited. He looked wary. "What?"
"I was just waiting for you to say, 'Not now,' too. You know, like always."
He smiled, and it was pure Shane - full of edges and yet oddly sweet."Claire, I just got out of jail. Do you honestly think I'm bucking for sainthood or something?"
Her whole body burned with a sudden burst of furious energy. He just said yes. Oh my God. All she could think of to say was, "Tell me how much you missed me."
"Not everything needs a speech." He was right about that. She could feel the wild energy in him, trembling right under his skin - a match for hers. "But I have to know, do you want to do this? Really?"
She'd been trying not to think about the scary mechanics of the moment. She'd asked Eve once, in that conspiracy-whisper voice girls used when they were embarrassed not to already know, whether or not the first time really hurt. Eve had said, very matter-of-factly, yes, and gone on to tell her all about her horrible first-time guy. So part of Claire's body was dreading the unknown, and part of it was screaming to jump in, no matter what happened.
"Yes," she said, and her whole body went quiet, stunned into silence. "Yes, Shane. I want to do this. I want to do it with you."
He let out his breath in a shaky laugh. "Nobody else? Not even the hot nude guy from that movie? No? Okay. No pressure." He gave her another kiss, this one fast and warm. "Upstairs?"
They slid off the couch together, hand in hand, and he led her up the stairs, looking back at her in warm glances, stopping every few steps to kiss her. By the time they made it to the top, she was tingling and shaking all over.
Shane pointed questioningly at his own door, but she shook her head. Her room was bigger, and it was at the end of the hall. More private.
He pulled in a quick, shaking breath. "Five minutes," he said. "I need a shower."
She nodded, although somehow being parted from him made it feel risky. They could change their minds at any second.
She opened her bedroom door as Shane went into the bathroom.
It hadn't occurred to Claire, but she supposed that Eve could have turned her former bedroom into anything - a Goth wardrobe warehouse, for instance, filled with skull- themed outfits. Or storage for her growing collection of vampire-slaying implements. Instead, the room was just the way Claire had left it - neat, kind of sterile, no trace of her own stuff left behind. There was a layer of dust on the sparse furniture, and the air felt cold for a few seconds, then began to warm up, as if the house sensed her presence and was eager to make her welcome again.
