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Stupid.
“Kiss me,” I say, twirling the longer ends of his wavy hair around the tips of my fingers.
His smoldering gaze drops and rests on my lips, and just looking at him looking at me, wanting to kiss me, is making me wet, making me want that kiss so much more. Closing my eyes, I tilt my chin up, waiting to receive that very first kiss I’m suddenly so ready for. I feel him, his heat, his lips, coming in closer. I pucker up, waiting for the kiss to land.
Finally, his lips touch my skin. To the right of my lips. On my cheek.
Right where my dad kisses me.
Not that it feels the same at all, gross, but what I mean is that he completely missed the mark. My eyes pop open wide. Huh?
“I asked for a kiss,” I say.
There’s the tip of that tantalizing tongue again, teasing me mercilessly as he drags it over his bottom lip. “No.” He shakes his head. His arms wrap tighter around my lower back, drawing me in closer.
“Why not?” I have to hold back a disappointed pout.
“What you said at the jewelry store?—”
“I know what I said,” I say. “But I changed my mind.”
His hands slip from my waist.
Which leaves me no choice but to let my hands drop from his neck. Now feeling exposed and rejected, I cross my arms over my chest, drawing in tighter as if to protect myself.
“I haven’t changed mine. I won’t kiss you.” He slips his hands in his pockets. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”
“How what’s going to be? You just had your… fingers inside of me?—”
“I know.” He interrupts me, bringing his fingers to his nose, taking a deep inhale. “Your scent is intoxicating. You smell even better than you feel. How is that possible?”
Oh God.
I feel like I’m turning all kinds of shades of red. But I persevere getting to my point. What was my point, again? I stare up at him and he’s now licking the finger he was just smelling, the look of the devil in his eyes.
Wicked.
Again.
Oh. God.
“Back to my point.” Focus, Paisley. What was your point. You had one. “You fingered me, but you won’t kiss me.”
“You set out the rules, princess.” His gaze bypasses me, glancing up at the bay of windows that is my bedroom for the night. “And now, it’s time for you to get to bed.”
“You can’t put me to bed.”
He just looks at me. With a look that says he can. “It’s time.”
“No, it’s not. We’re going to talk about this...” This what? The things happening between us feel so good, make me feel alive, are helping me get experience in the bedroom. “Relationship.”
“No,” he says. “We’re not.”
Wrapping my arms tighter around myself, I plant my feet into the Pacific Northwest soil like the strong roots of the Douglas fir tree. “Yes, we are.” He’s not going to not kiss me, tell me I have to go to bed, and not talk.
“Have it your way. As always,” he says. With a huff, he bends over, wraps both his arms around me mid-thigh, and as he straightens back up, flips the entire top half of my body over his shoulder.
My front hangs over his back. His muscular shoulder digs into my belly, my legs hang down over his chest. Like a floppy, droopy ragdoll.
