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I tut at him as I cradle my much more respectable peach beverage. “This might be a dealbreaker.”
The raise of Jackson’s brows is nothing short of a challenge. “Oh really?”
“Yup.”
A scoffed breath caresses my cheek as he leans in close, his nose brushing mine, his lips hot against the corner of my mouth. My breath catches at the sudden proximity, my stomach fucking somersaulting as he smoothes a hand up my thigh, settling dangerously close to the crook of my hip. “Are you sure about that?”
“Ye-”
I don't get to finish my retort.
Lips capture mine, and I manage to hold off for all of ten pathetic seconds before I kiss him back, not even caring that he tastes like the cursed grapefruit Crush.
* * *
I'm barely watching the movie.
I'm way too focused on the man nestled beside me.
At some point, we shifted. Huddled closer together. Me slouched between his legs with his chest warming my back, his big hands rubbing my bare arms and chasing away the cold of the night. His arms crossed over my chest and his chin resting on my shoulder, I’m completely surrounded by the man, and it’s an odd yet wonderful thing.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a lover of physical touch. I’m all about skin-to-skin contact. I’m no stranger to casual affection.
Just not like this.
I can’t recall a time in my life when I was held likethis.
Gentle yet firm.
Comforting yet alarming.
Safe yet so very dangerous.
I can’t tell if it makes it better or worse, how very aware he is of my… strife? Confusion? Complete and utter dating ineptitude?
Better, maybe, because whatever it is, he counters it all with nothing but comfort. A tight grip and murmured words of assurance, regular reminders that he feels just as out of his depth as I do. That he doesn’t expect anything from me; he just wants me.
And it does help.
Ifdistractingcan be considered helping.
When wrapped up in arms like Jackson’s, how’s a girl supposed to focus on anything else?
The movie all but background noise, I shift to the side, tilting my head back to gaze up at him. “I have a question.”
Not at all perturbed by the interruption, Jackson crooks a brow.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“That’s a disappointingly vague answer for an artist.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You wanted an exact paint shade?”
I sigh, my eyes briefly closing in a feign moment of disappointment. “You’re supposed to say something romantic. You know,” I attempt a sorry imitation of his voice, “light blue, like your eyes.”
Jackson’s chuckle brushes my forehead a second before his lips do. “I use a color called Spun Sugar a lot,” he says quietly. “It’s pale cyan. That’s my favorite.”
