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Let the games begin!
Jonah battled with himself. The right thing to do was to say something to Brontë. His base need called for him to partake in her luscious body. She wanted to be pleasured, and he was more than willing to give her all the pleasure she could take. After all, when would he ever have the chance again? How long had he desired her? Since they were both nothing more than kids.
Brontë had shown up in his second to last year of high school. She was unlike anyone he had ever met. Everyone else, himself included, was desperate to fit in. There was no indication that she had a care in the world, as she seemed so confident in her own skin. People were naturally drawn to her. High school's structure was upended by her disruption of its catty hierarchy of cliques. All the while, she seemed oblivious to the turmoil she created. The plus-sized nerdy black girl was popular. The circle that Jonah had run with was upset… even threatened… by her. They essentially forced him to choose, Brontë or them.
It was one of the few decisions he regretted. Despite Jonah's desire, he couldn't take her as his prom date. To keep in with the popular crowd, he went with one of the cheerleaders. He couldn’t even remember her name. It had been a miserable time. Jonah hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Brontë the entire night.
Her movement pulled him from the past. Jonah moved closer. The need to touch her was so great, he ignored propriety. Brontë’s energy, want, and need called to him. His hand skimmed the smoothness of her leg. To her credit, his sudden touch didn’t alarm her. Instead, she emitted a contented sigh. His hand continued its journey, stopping momentarily at her waist. He wanted to hold on to her ample hips as he pounded into her.
Groan.
His groan was guttural as the scene invaded his senses. Not lingering, Jonah continued his tactile exploration until he reached her neck. With feather-light touches, he stroked her sensitive skin. Brontë shuddered beneath his nimble fingers. With a gentle grasp of her jaw, he turned her face in his direction. Her velvety soft lips were so inviting. His descent was slow. He savoured every moment. Her slightly parted lips smelled of something fruity, with a hint of mint. Jonah was a hair’s breadth away from capturing her mouth when his conscience pricked him.
This isn’t right.These interactions were based on trust. Brontë had gone into this arrangement believing it would be with a stranger, not some boy she once knew who didn’t have the fortitude to claim her before others.
Apparently, his hesitance wasn’t appreciated. Before Jonah could react, she pulled him down to her pillowy lips. All thoughts of telling her who he was abandoned as he became lost in the kiss. Jesus, when was the last time he kissed someone with so much fervour? It had been too long.
This wasn’t their first kiss. Brontë had been his first awkward kiss. They had bumped heads. In the end, what could have been the most embarrassing moment of his life was turned around by her putting him at ease. They’d laughed off the incident and eaten ice cream. Their second kiss was magic. It was thrilling the way their tongues danced in unison. Was it possible? That was the last time a kiss was this exhilarating?
As amazing as their tongues mating felt, it wasn’t enough. An aching need to have more of her overtook him. As he released the first button on her blouse, her delicate fingers plunged into his strands. The firm yank to his roots pulled Jonah from his lust-filled kiss.
This isn’t right.
Jonah abruptly pulled from her.
“Huh? Why did you stop?” Her head turned in his direction in confusion. Taking a couple of steps back, he put distance between them. Jonah needed to, in order to do the right thing.
“Brontë.”
“That better be a good fucking guess.” Brontë’s voice pitched in alarm. She sat up quickly and ripped off the mask. “What the hell is going—”
Her words died as her gaze inspected him. “Jonah? Jonah, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” His voice held a plea for her to understand. Understand what? He couldn’t tell. Jonah just didn’t like the look of suspicion that blanketed her features as her eyes widened comically.
One moment she was sitting up in the bed, the next she had jumped from it. Her brows arched in skepticism. “What the hell is going on?”
“I filled out a questionnaire on KNK and was matched… it seems, with you,” Jonah informed. A blank stare greeted his explanation. Jonah slipped his hand into his pocket and produced the black card. Her eyes drifted to the proof that he held. She blinked. “I had no idea we had been matched until after I arrived.”
“You recognised me?” She shook her head, and that seemed to propel her into motion. Brontë looked around, searching for something, and eventually, she left the bedroom. He followed her out to the living area. She promptly nodded as she slipped her feet into a pair of killer heels.
“Why didn’t you say something?” She asked, spinning to look at him.
“I wanted to. I was going to say something—” Jonah stumbled over his words. He felt the guilt of what had transpired.
“It’s fine.” She said, waving him off. “Well, I initiated the kiss. I guess this puts an end to our night.” She finished her sentence with a deep sigh ladened with disappointment. It was a statement, but something about the way she looked at him. Made him think maybe she hoped otherwise. That was until she opened up a door and removed her purse from a shelf.
“I don’t know Brontë. Does it have to be?” He took a step towards her, but the look she gave him halted his strides.
“I think that would be for the best, Jonah.” Her barely- there smile mimicked a taunting smirk.
“I suppose, but we were both… looking for something tonight.”
“Be that as it may. This awkward situation wasn’t what I had in mind.”
The kiss had released a chemical reaction. One he wanted to replicate repeatedly. The need for her coursed through his system. The taste of her lingered on his tongue. All he needed was some time to convince her that the matchmaker had it right. Jonah desired to end the night with her beneath him.
“How about a drink, then?” His eyes zeroed in on the button he had released. His nostrils flared with yearning.
