Page 17 of Salt Kiss
Even if it does remind me of Sims. Of R & R in Warsaw, drinking until we stumbled down to the river and passed out. Of another R & R island-hopping in Greece, until we found ourselves standing in front of the temple of Poseidon outside Athens and cracking open the cold drinks we’d smuggled in, daring each other to duck under the ropes to find Byron’s name chiseled onto one of the pillars.
Mark clinks his glass to the neck of my bottle and then we both take a healthy swallow.
“You don’t have whiskey either, sir,” I point out.
“Juniper berries are a superfood, which basically makes gin a cold-pressed juice,” he says. “I’m looking out for my health.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now watch.”
We watch, the silence easier than it should be, given how restless and strange the silence had been in the car earlier. The sun sinks in slow splendor over the flat river and the city beyond, the horizon broken by the Monument and the Capitol and the cranes against the sky like predatory birds perched in wait. Orange and pink fade into violet and blue, a few brave stars try to burn their way through the city’s glow, and all of it is rendered in duplicate by the river stretching before us.
The traffic and the river make a kind of soothing symphony to it all, and the beer is good, and Mark next to me makes me feel—aware, I guess. Of the breeze tugging gently at my jacket and of the way my clothes feel on my skin. Of how often I lick my lips and swallow.
When I turn to look at him, to tell him he was right about the sunset, he’s set his glass on the ledge and is already looking back at me. Watching me. I don’t know for how long.
“Hold still,” he says, voice low. “I can see the sky reflected in your eyes. It’s quite arresting.”
I am fixed by his words, by his attention. I don’t think anyone has ever said something like this to me. I don’t think anyone has ever murmuredhold stillto me as a directive purely for their pleasure.
I...I don’t dislike it.
If I were thinking clearly, I might say it was to be polite, to placate my new boss, to figure out what, exactly, was going on. But I’m not thinking clearly right now. All I’m thinking is that he’s so close and that the last of the sunset’s behind him, framing perfectly the rugged cheeks and jaw, the high forehead and long eyelashes. The bluntly gorgeous features that make him equally hard to look at and look away from.
That smell—clean summer rain—is all around me. Mark’s hand lifts to the lapel of my jacket; I feel his touch wisp up to the lapel’s notch and then trace down. His fingers curl into the fabric, holding me.
I can’t see the lingering sunset in his eyes, only the sparkle of countless city lights. His full lips are parting.
His head tips toward mine.
The kiss is soft,so soft, for how firm his lips are. They brush against mine once, twice, before slotting with unutterable pliancy against my mouth. His hand continues fisting in my jacket as our lips part together, in tandem, and I hear him pull in a long breath through his nose, as if scenting me.
The idea is so crudely physical that it has me shuddering, even before his tongue dips into my mouth with excruciating skill, grazing against mine in measured demands until I open even more.
His fingers tighten slightly in my jacket and there’s a small release of air from his nose—he’s pleased. Pleased that I opened for him. His tongue reaches deeper, demands more, until we are kissing fully now, nothing held back. He tastes like juniper and citrus and cinnamon.
Instinct has me reaching for him, reaching for more, but he releases my lapel and catches my wrists before I can touch him. The kiss breaks wetly, abruptly, and we stand there, breathing hard with his hands tight as manacles on my wrists.
He lets go of me suddenly, with a hard shake of his head, like he has to make himself.
“What—” My voice is hoarse, shaky. I want to reach up and touch my wet mouth, but instead one hand goes to rub at my wrist. “What was that for, sir?”
Mark says, finally, “It seemed right that at least one of us should get what they’d hoped for.”
What they’d hoped for.
A kiss.
And then he takes his glass from the ledge and leaves the roof.
I stay there in the dark, trying to pin thoughts and logic to what just happened. Reminding myself that I’m standing on top of a building where a kiss is the most innocent act possible, that Mark probably kisses people as often as he shakes their hands.
Reminding myself that he is myboss. My new stepmom’s brother. Possibly an evil man.
But when I finally go down the stairs, past the closed doors of Mark’s suite and down to my own floor, I can’t remember any of it. I can only remember how his mouth felt against mine and how that kiss was even more tender and silky than I’d imagined a kiss could be before I came home.
Seven
