Page 38 of Hidden with a Rockstar
"I didn't say it did."
But her face is saying everything her voice isn't. She sets her wine down and looks at the ceiling. Her hand on the couch cushion between us, not touching but close enough that I could reach it.
"Are you jealous?" I ask.
I mean it lightly. A tease, maybe. But the silence that follows has a gravity I can feel. She looks at me and then looks away.
"Rhonda."
"Yeah."
"That wasn't a rhetorical question."
"I know."
"So you're jealous."
"I think I am," she says. "You're telling me that this Gerald gave you flowers, and I'm losing my mind about it."
I feel my pulse quicken.
"You're not?—"
"I am. I’m completely losing my mind."
She leans forward. Her hand finds the side of my face, her palm against my jaw, her thumb along my cheekbone. The touch is so careful it makes my teeth ache.
"Can I?" she asks.
"Yes."
She kisses me. Or I kiss her. We meet in the gap between the couch cushions, and the kiss is soft and searching and tastes like red wine and a year of voice notes and all the things we've been building toward since the vending machine.
We pull apart. Her forehead against mine and our breathing is uneven.
"That answers my question," I say.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She does.
The second kiss is less gentle. Her hands are in my hair and mine are under the hem of her shirt, finding warm skin and the ridge of her hip bone. She makes a sound against my mouth.
"Wait." She pulls back. Eyes on mine, pupils blown. Her breathing is quick and uneven and deliberate. "Are you sure? Is this okay?"
"Rhonda, I’ve been cooking elaborate meals for you every time you come over. I made you chicken cacciatore. I don’t even like tomato. "
"That's not an answer." She’s smiling.
"Yes," I say. "I am sure. I've wanted this since the vending machine."
"The vending machine was ages ago!"
"I'm know."
She grins and then her mouth is on my neck. My hands are pulling her shirt up. We're moving, stumbling, laughing with a graceless urgency toward the bedroom.
