Page 71 of Fall For Me
But he waits. He doesn’t just swoop in and kiss me. He searches my eyes, asking for permission.
The giant screen, the thousands of onlookers, and the pressure all fade into the background. I only see him.
I give him a small, shaky nod.
He leans in.
Liam brushes his lips over mine. It’s soft, chaste. He keeps our mouths pressed together for only a few seconds. It should be enough. It is enough to satisfy the crowd.
But it’s not enough for me.
Something inside me snaps.
I don’t know if it’s the pressure of being watched, the adrenaline of the game, or the accumulated tension of every almost-moment between us over the past week. But the instant his mouth touches mine, I stop thinking. I forget where I am and who I’m kissing.
I grab the front of his leather jacket and pull.
He stumbles forward and freezes for a microsecond, surprised, but then I part my lips, pushing my tongue into his mouth.
And all bets are off.
Liam makes a strangled sound in his throat—surprise, or surrender.
Then he’s kissing me back.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, tilting my face to deepen the angle. His tongue meets mine, and whatever restraint we’ve been clinging to disintegrates.
It’s just a kiss.
But it detonates through my system like a bomb.
A jolt races up my spine, scattering heat and light in its wake. My scalp buzzes as if every hair has been wired into a socket. Nothing exists but the pressure of his mouth and the grip of his hands and the thunder of my heartbeat drowning out the world.
“Whoa!” The commentator’s voice crashes through the haze. “Get a room, you two!”
Laughter ripples through the stadium.
I gasp and pull away, breathless. I give Liam one shocked look—his eyes are blown wide, his lips slick and puffy—and then I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my cheeks burning so hot they might singe his jacket.
Liam’s free arm comes around me, shielding me from the cameras. He leans down, his mouth pressing against my ear, his other hand still tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“For pushing my tongue into your mouth,” I mumble into the leather.
His body shakes. For a horrifying second, I think he’s angry.
Then I realize he’s laughing.
“That,” he whispers, his breath hot on my skin, “is the nicest thing anyone has ever apologized for.” His voice is rough, intimate despite the surrounding chaos. “Don’t worry. My tongue was in your mouth too.”
“I did it first,” I argue weakly.
“We got carried away,” he reassures me, smoothing his palm against my back. “It’s fine.”
I shake my head against his chest, still mortified. But he doesn’t let me hide. He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him.
