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Returning his smile, I pull him to the house. As I lead him through the door and up the stairs, our grasp changes. When we get to my room, I’m no longer guiding him by the hand. He’s taken over, his strong fingers wrapped around mine in a firm and secure hold. We stop outside my door, facing each other.
We don’t need words to communicate. I get it. I know he’s waiting for my permission. He understands me. He knows I want him to do this, whatever that means, not in a grainy night through the bars of the gate, but here in my room where I’ve touched myself thinking of him.
His smile never wanes. The gesture offers me gentle reassurance as he pushes down the handle and opens the door. He pauses, waiting for me to enter, giving me a choice. Only, with him, there’s never been a choice.
When I step into my room, he closes the door. I turn. He looks at me, not vigilant and alert like outside, but cutting a slow path with his gaze over me, taking his fill. He starts at my toes and ends on my face, and then, finally, on my lips.
He takes a step forward. I take one back. I don’t want to run. The room just feels too small with him in it. His energy is overwhelming, his masculinity drowning me.
In the light of the moon, something dark flashes in his eyes. He likes this—my flight and his chase. I may not be experienced, but I know it instinctively. Like on that first day, I’m out of my depth.
He advances. I retreat. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he likes the game. Maybe because I like it too. My back hits the wall. He closes in on me, leaning a hand next to my face. Deliberately, he gives me an escape route, slipping his free hand in his pocket and leaving one side of our bodies open.
His eyes are so dark they glow like a demon’s in his face. Even more captivating than those gleaming pools is what I see in them. Something deep and darker flows underneath, something simultaneously disturbing and hypnotizing.
“Did you keep it for me?” he asks, fixing his gaze on my mouth.
I’m incapable of speaking. My chest heaves as I stare up at him, painful breaths trapped between my ribs where my heart is pounding.
He pulls his hand from his pocket and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. The touch is careful, tender. “Did you save your first kiss for me?”
He knows the answer, but he wants me to say it.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Instead of softening his features, satisfaction turns them hard. The possession in his expression is so fierce it almost makes him look cruel.
When he lowers his head, I inhale sharply. His smell envelopes me, a combination of citrus, cedar, and a man’s clean skin.
We’ve never been suggestive or physical in our messages. No sex talk or naked pics. He made the rules and set the boundaries. At some stage, I was worried our exchange was too platonic, that he wasn’t interested in me like that, but all those doubts fly through the window as he lets me see the intention in his eyes. He keeps them open as he slowly aims for my mouth, searching my gaze and reading my reaction.
My eyes flutter closed. I’m not brave enough to keep mine open. The anticipation drags on, the waiting like torture as his warm breath fans over my mouth with a hint of mint. I want to breathe him in, to taste him.
Seconds pass, the world spinning, and then he does it. He closes the distance. His lips are warm and soft, their pressure gentle on mine. The kiss is dry and pleasant. Too fleeting. I’m not prepared for my body’s reaction, for the arousal that tightens my nipples and the heat that gathers between my thighs. I squeeze my legs together. My breath catches as the warmth vanishes from my lips. I lift my chin, chasing after the intoxicating heat, but it’s gone.
Confused, I open my eyes.
Angelo stares at me with a shuttered expression. He cups my jaw in his big hand and lifts my face to his. “I can’t go further with you, bella. You’re only seventeen.”
I bite my lip, both disappointed and frustrated.
Brushing our cheeks together, he brings his lips to my ear. “Happy birthday, cara.”
My skin tingles where the roughness of his stubble grates over it. My mouth is dry. “Thank you.”
“One day, you’ll thank me for more than kissing you.”
The nuance of his words makes me burn. I recall what he told me, the promise he made on the morning after my party.
All your firsts are mine.
Taking my hand, he pulls me off the wall. “How’s Pirate?”
The change of topic gives me time to gather myself. It’s a clever and deliberate effort on his part.
