Page 58 of Mixed Signals
And oh.Oh. Caleb’s kiss is the best sort of indulgence. He’s slow. Contemplative. He kisses me with all of the self-restraint I accused him of having, but now it feels purposeful. It feels like I am being savored. He presses a kiss to the dip in my top lip, the corner of my mouth, the tiny white scar on the curve of my jaw from when I was seven and stupid and stole my big sister’s scooter on a neighborhood joyride.
There,each kiss says.There and there and there.
I feel like his favorite butter croissant.
Each tiny, perfect kiss drives me higher until I’m desperate with wanting. My hand sifts into his hair and I tug, a whine caught in the back of my throat. I want more. I want everything.
I feel Caleb’s careful restraint splinter beneath my hands and against my mouth. I want to grin in triumph.
But then he hitches me up with one arm wrapped low around my waist and tips me backwards until I’m clinging to him for dear life, my thighs squeezing at his hips for purchase. His wet jeans press against the bare skin on the inside of my knees, a rough drag that ignites my blood and has goosebumps erupting over every inch of bare skin.
Classic movie kiss,I think faintly, in some recess of my brain that is still capable of logical thought. He holds me steady with one strong arm beneath my ass as rain pours down on us both, his other hand cradling my face. I’ve never been held like this during a kiss before, never been touched with such … necessity. Caleb catches my bottom lip between his teeth with a growl and my back arches, hands scraping against his shoulders. He tips my mouth open with his thumb at my chin until our tongues can slip together. Hot. Urgent. Wet.
Everything in my body clenches tight. Our hands move frantically between us, the both of us reaching for any bit of bare skin we can find. The smooth stretch of my thigh, the curve between his neck and shoulder—the small of my back and the slope of my arm. It’s a fight to see who can claim new ground first. Who can touch the most.
When I slip my hand under the hem of his wet shirt and splay my palm flat against a stack of solid, surprising muscle, his whole body lurches against me. My nails scratch and his hand grabs mine, gently pausing my wandering exploration. He slows our mouths to something deep and wet, his fingers fanned against my throat, the back of my neck. He tastes like ice cream. Like sweetness and sugar and the bite of something dark, right at the edge. The cinnamon I sprinkle on top of my apple pies. Warm, dark chocolate.
His thumb trails down from my jaw to the hollow between my breasts. He lingers there, hesitating. I want him to go further. I want him to slip his hands beneath the soft, wet material of this borrowed shirt and drag that thumb against my nipples. Make me arch and cry out and tremble.
But he just kisses me. He kisses me until I can’t breathe. Until I can’t remember my own name.
“Layla.”
It’s a good thing he says it for me.
He guides my hand out from under his shirt and twists our fingers together. He squeezes gently, settling me. Settling us both. I squeeze back and press my forehead to his.
“Layla,” he says again, voice low and a little hoarse.
“Hmm?” I have never been kissed like that in my life. I’m punch drunk. My whole body is numb.
He chuckles and helps me unwrap my legs from around his waist. I don’t even remember how we got tangled up like this. He sets me down on the bottom step of my porch and my bare feet slip on the wet wood. He reaches out to steady me, almost falling over as he tries to keep me from doing a faceplant in the grass. It’s messy and uncoordinated and a little bit perfect.
I find my footing, his hands on my hips and my heart in my throat. Caleb gently urges me back onto the steps until we’re eye-to-eye. I’ve never been kissed like that, and I’ve never been taken care of like this. His borrowed shirt. His careful hands. His knuckles brushing under my chin.
I look at him standing there in the rain, droplets still cascading over his skin. His cheeks are flushed, his hair is wet, and his lips are bruised. Rain slips over his face and down his collarbone. I hope I remember him like this always.
“Tell me the truth,” I try. My voice sounds like sandpaper. “You wanted to continue your injury streak, kissing me like that.” I smooth his wet hair back from his face. I tug a little bit and his eyelashes flutter. Interesting. “You have a hurt/comfort kink.”
He blinks at me. “A what?”
His voice is deliciously rough, a low rumble deep in his chest. I shiver and he notices, his eyes flashing a shade darker. Raw cocoa. Dark cherry.
“A hurt/comfort kink,” I say, trying to hold myself back from hitching my knee at his hip again and grinding us both to something decadent and satisfying. Something with panting breaths and grabbing hands, his voice in my ear and my teeth against his neck. My gaze trips down his body. I can see two inches of bare stomach where his wet shirt has ridden up, a thick and heavy bulge at the front of his jeans. Now I’m the one who has to swallow hard.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said the wordkink.
Dark eyes consider me carefully as his fingers tuck a wet lock of hair behind my ear. His thumb traces my jaw and lingers on my chin, the swell of my bottom lip. It’s like he’s memorizing what that kiss made me look like. Flushed and breathless, I imagine. Gobsmacked.
Deliciously and deliriously happy.
“I’m going to go home now,” he tells me, not moving.
I nod. “Okay.” I don’t unwrap my arms from around his waist.
He nuzzles my cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I still don’t let him go.
