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I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say now. Mostly I want to suction my mouth back to his and feel his hands on me again. But I don’t want to seem desperate.
It’s darker now, the sun having set. The only streetlights are at the end of the road, between the Kingstons’ and Winslows’ driveways. Their properties are also gated.
BJ tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ear, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Can I kiss you good night?”
Looks like I’m not the only one stuck on the idea of making out. “Are you going to tell me a long-winded story that doesn’t have an ending first?” God, I’m so salty.
He chuckles. “You’re turning into my favorite person real fast.” He leans in to brush his lips over mine.
I slide my hands up his chest and curve a palm around the back of his neck. I’m fairly tall for a girl, but BJ is well over six feet, so I have to tip my head back. And just like the first time, it starts off slow and gentle, but quickly turns into a tangle of tongues. I find myself pressed against the side of the Jeep.
One of his hands slides into the hair at the nape of my neck, and the other eases down my side until it reaches the hem of my shirt, slipping under the fabric to skim my waist. I press my hips into his, feeling the hard length of him against my stomach. I moan into his mouth, wishing for friction, for anything to ease the ache building between my thighs. A kiss shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t make me feel like this, but here I am, turning into a wanton, needy mess.
I hook one of my legs around his and shift until it settles between mine. I roll my hips, moaning at the delicious friction and the feel of his erection against my hip. I let one hand drift down his arm and move the hand resting on my waist over my ribs until his fingers reach the underside of my sports bra. I push it up until my breast pops out and move his hand to cup it.
He breaks the kiss. “This feels like the opposite of taking things slow.”
“I never said anything about taking it slow. That’s all you.”
He chuckles, but this time it’s a dark sound that sends a thrill rushing through me. He sucks my bottom lip and sweeps a thumb over my nipple.
I moan and arch into the touch.
He rolls the tight peak between his thumb and finger.
“Oh fuck.” I shamelessly grind on his leg, looking for more friction.
“I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together, Snowflake,” BJ whispers against my lips.
“I think you should put your hand down my pants.”
He pulls back again, gaze moving over my face like a caress that echoes through my body and pings between my thighs. “The environment is lacking in romance.”
I point to the sky. “The stars are all starry, and the crickets are being cricket-y. How much more romantic does it need to be?”
“How about we make a deal?” He rolls my nipple between his fingers again.
I dig my nails into the back of his neck. “This is highly unfair. I’m too horny to think straight.”
He ignores me and keeps on with the nipple attention. “We hang out for the rest of this week, and if you still want my hand down your pants on Friday, I’ll make sure we have privacy and don’t have to use the back seat of my Jeep.”
“But we can still make out between now and then?” I kind of love that he’s negotiating for ambiance.
“Absolutely.”
“Okay. Deal. Fingerbang Friday is on like Donkey Kong.”
He laughs, kisses me one last time, and moves my sports bra back into place. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.” I pick up my hockey bag and slide my arms through the straps, then hop on my bike.
He waits until I reach my driveway before he drives away.
My dad’s car is sitting at a wonky angle in front of the cabin, which makes me wonder if he stopped at the Town Pub before he came home. I leave my bike and hockey bag in the garage, grab the backpack I keep inside the hockey bag, and turn off all the lights before I enter the cabin. My dad is passed out in the lounger, the TV droning in the background. I assume my mom is already in bed since she has to get up at five to be at the diner by six.
I tiptoe across the kitchen and disappear into my bedroom, locking my door. I unzip the front pouch of my backpack and retrieve today’s tips—fifteen dollars. Not a lot, but every dollar counts.
I lift up on the handle of my dresser drawer and pull to the right. The drawer sits askew on the track. It’s hard to open, and if done wrong, it makes a horrible squealing sound. I could fix it, but it’s where I keep the things I don’t want my dad to know about, including my tuition money.
