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“No,” I murmur, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“So?”
My teeth dig into my bottom lip, doubting for a second.
“Maybe we’re going down a dangerous path,” I say, putting a hand on his chest, keeping a safe distance between us that assures me that I’m careful enough. His minty breath barely grazes my face. “I really don’t want to ruin our friendship, okay?”
Honesty feels like drinking a heavy shot; it burns my throat, and it makes my stomach twirl. I can’t help that I’m a blunt person. My mouth is always three seconds ahead of my mind, forcing me to deal with the consequences of whatever my words cause.
Stanley leans, and, for a brief instant, I think he’s going to kiss me. I hold my breath, waiting for something that never happens because his mouth never meets mine.Why do I feel disappointed?At the last second, he changes the path, and his lips brush my earlobe. My muscles warn me that they’re a minute away from melting in his hands.
“Believe me, I don’t want to ruin it either.” He stops talking, and I feel drunk from the essence of his cologne and the hoarse tone of his voice. It’s absurdly intimate and, why deny it? It’s scorching hot. “But it’s Halloween, so I’m going with the flow. Tomorrow we can go back to being awkward and careful around each other.”
I lick my lips, my mouth dry as a desert.
“Can we?” I question, allowing the fear to speak for me. “Can we go back to normal if we ruin our friendship?”
Stanley gulps visibly.
“We’re not crossingthatline,” he clarifies, although I can perceive his voice trembling with nervousness, like part of him does want to go over the invisible line that we don’t want to erase. “But I don’t want you to freak out if I have my hands on you.”
This is dangerous. The reason why I didn’t want to think aboutthiswas that the signs are right in front of me, and I’m scared to death that this won’t work out. They have present between us for weeks, but I prefer to be blindly ignorant and deny it until my last breath. I’m not willing to risk it. The last thing I want to do is lose one of the few real friends I’ve made in a long time.
“I can handle the hands,” I mutter in response. “It’s everything else that scares me.”
Stanley takes a step away, his eyes focusing on me. Once again, his intense gaze turns my legs to jelly. The tension wraps us so tightly that I feel like I can’t breathe. But I’m not as terrified as I should be because I know that I can trust him. He hasn’t given me a reason not to.
“I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. You know that, don’t you?” he asks cautiously.
A small sigh abandons my lips as I slowly slide my hands up to his neck. He observes every movement, analyzing what I’m doing through half-shut eyes. Stanley said that hands were allowed tonight, right? That means that I can touch him too if I want to. This moment is the right one for me to let my hands wander his figure.
“I know, Stan.” He puts his forehead against mine, absorbs the sensation for a second, and then retrocedes. “Just hands?” I make sure that we’re both on the same page. Stanley nods. “And tomorrow we go back to normal?”
“Yes.”
I move my head in agreement. “Okay. I can work with that.”
Letting his tongue caress his bottom lip, Stanley steps back, but his hand reaches for mine, intertwining our fingers. I hope that my palm doesn’t start sweating because I don’t want to turn this into an awkward situation. Especially when we’re diving into unknown territory.
“Now, do you want a drink?”
I arch a brow. A playful smile draws on my face.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I shake my head with disapproval. The truth is that I wouldn’t mind getting tipsy. I need the liquid courage to handle whatever happens tonight.
He rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t specify what kind of drink. Tsk, that devilish mind of you always thinking the worse of me. I could be talking about sodas for all you know.”
I laugh, allowing for the stress levels to go down.
“C’mon, Lestat. This devil wants alcohol.”
We walk together to the kitchen. Stanley grabs a plastic cup and washes it in the sink.
“Why?” I point at the cup.
He shrugs, approaching the keg.
