Page 57 of Don't Be in Love

I didn’t have time to react. There was no time to react when Dorian Blackwood looked at you like that.

His lips met mine and I gasped despite myself.It felt like all the lights in London exploded.

His hand tugged the hair at the nape of my neck, and I leaned into his hold, kissing him back without hesitation. I reacted as if this was habitual. Like my subconscious—who had been designing my dreams for the past two months—kicked in and took hold of the pedal. Heavy-footed, it pushed to the floor.

I was drowning. Back in that pond outside the school and he was bringing me back to shore again. Holding me up, cupping the sides of my face. The drumming of the rain on the sidewalk was a distant sound compared to the roaring in my ears.

We’re kissing. We’re kissing. We’re kissing and I don’t want to pull away.

His lips were soft and sweet and consuming and decisive.

Like feeling the seasons turn from summer to fall, when the goosebumps spread, the air chilled, and the trees changed. It was beautiful and steadfast. Then one night, you were placing the hot skin of your palm against the frosted window to cool yourself down from the heat of the hearth.

But I couldn’t cool down. Every surface of my body that he touched was on fire. Every surface of my body that hewasn’ttouching was on fire. Anticipation was the brink, and I wanted to dive in.

I grabbed onto his jacket and pulled him against my chest.

He groaned. His lips parted just enough in the proclamation, and I was instantly parting mine. I wanted more. I needed more.

His hands left my face and ran down my back, making their way to my hips. It was primal—the way he held onto me, the way he kissed me. But there was also a sense of care. Caution.

I couldn’t think on it further. Not when we were accelerating.

His tongue ran over my bottom lip and his heart thumped against mine as I finally explored the clean smell of his hair that lived on the T-shirt he had given me two weeks ago.

It was painful, how familiar it all was.

“We should stop,” I murmured between breaths.

“Should we?” he asked against my lips.

God, his voice was so attractive, and I found myself leaning onto my toes to reach more of him.

“I’ve thought about this every day,” he whispered.

I had thought about this every day too. I had thought about the way his hands clutched onto my hips. And how he kissed with his head tilted to the left. The way he unwound, letting all of his truths spill out as if I force-fed him some serum.

I wore these thoughts like a Scarlet Letter since that night in August. They smeared my face every time I looked at him.

Now, they were officially stitched into my skin. Paint glued to a canvas.

Suddenly, the sound of the rain became clearer. I could hear it bouncing off the awning above my head. I could hear the creaky sound of the front door of our apartment building opening down the block. The pot smacking against the stovetop in my kitchen where Brina was most likely making us dinner right now in the only place I had called home in eight years.

I was guilty.

If I wasn’t guilty before, I was guilty now.

I knew what Dorian meant to Sabrina this time around and I went ahead and kissed him anyway andenjoyedit. I already let myself think abouthimandusformonths.

And now I was acting on all of those thoughts.

I pulled away, suffering from labored breathing and the look on his face. The evidence of us kissing was in the dark color of his lips and the dishevelment of his hair. I hadn’t even realized I had been running my hands through it.

I clutched my chest. I couldn’t muster up words in this state. I couldn’t be logical right now.

“I need to go,” were the only words I could come up with. I turned—

He reached for my hand. “Adelaide, wait—”