We reach an alley between two restaurants, and he pulls me into the shadows—slowly walking backward so I have plenty of time to balk. Instead I follow him, my body turning heavy and warm. I have that same itchy feeling just touching him in one place: my hand in his.
He backs me against the wall, and cold, damp brick cradles me. His body leans against me from the front, so I’m sandwiched in from the cool air.
“Hi,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my forehead.
It makes me laugh a little, as if we’re only just now meeting.
My lips are still curved in a smile when he kisses me. He tastes it from one end to the other, as if he can sip my happiness like the champagne I saw people drink with dinner.
As if it’s just as bubbly and cool.
He pulls back, and I’m breathing hard, staring at the shine of dark green.
“Hi back,” I whisper, and then I push up on my toes to kiss him more. This time he swipes my lips with his tongue. I part them, and he presses inside. His tongue rubs against mine, and I whimper into his mouth. He pulls back an inch, and my whole body leans forward as if to catch him. Maybe the mermaids did more than sun on a warm rock. Maybe they wanted the dragons to crash. It’s as if something snaps. Something breaks. His control maybe, and he presses his lips against mine, hard and a little clumsy. His tongue opens my mouth forcibly, searching, searching, not able to find what he needs. Elusive, he said. The flavor of him eludes me, and I hunt for more of it with my lips. It feels like my heart is in my throat, and I ache. I ache for him to do more than kiss me. I want him to touch me, to bear me down on the dirty alleyway floor.
“Elijah,” I murmur between kisses, and he answers back, “Christ. I know.”
Then he stops. Air fills the space between us. The physical barrier emphasizes that we were one, only seconds ago we were one body, moving together. He puts his hands on the wall above my shoulders and hangs his head. I’m looking at the crown of his head, the glimmer of water droplets that cling to his hair.
It’s pure impulse that makes me lean forward, press my nose to his scalp, and breathe deep. He smells like man and musk and some indefinable scent of Elijah.
It shouldn’t be as intimate as kissing, but somehow it’s even more private, more sensual, more primal, the way I’ve scented him.
As if he feels it too, he growls. “You don’t get to steal that from me. Not without giving it back.” Then he grasps my hair in his fist and brings it to his nose. He breathes in audibly, as if savoring the smell of me. His grip is rough and ungentlemanly, and it makes something tighten between my legs. He breathes in for much longer than me, muttering almost to himself as he does. “Salt. Sunshine. The goddamn ocean. Why do you smell like the ocean?”
Then he kisses me again, hard this time, without any mercy or gentleness. I don’t want mercy. I don’t want gentleness. He plunders my mouth, seeking from it, stealing, the way I stole his scent. He wants my secrets, and I’m helpless to grant them.
“Is it always like this?” I ask, panting.
“Never,” he says, his voice still an animal grunt.
“Take me to your apartment.”
He hangs his head again, and I know without him saying it that the answer’s no. He asked me out, he paid for dinner, all for the privilege of a stolen kiss. “I’m taking you home.”
“Is it because of my age?” It’s the elephant in the room, the thing neither of us have spoken about. The fact that I’m probably underage. The fact that he’s probably not. We have been careful not to share numbers, but both of us know.
“Yes. No. Hell.” He laughs, unsteady. “It’s because you’re a virgin.”
I flinch at the term. A virgin. Worse than him calling me a nerd. “I know about sex.”
“You don’t know the way I have sex. It’s rough, Holly. It’s… disrespectful. Cruel. You deserve better than that, especially for your first time.”
Rough. Disrespectful. In principle I understand those words should be scary. In reality they make that knot between my legs a little tighter. “Cruel?”
“I don’t even know why I wanted to kiss you. I was sure it would be boring. Bland. What’s a kiss when you can fuck and fuck hard? Except I couldn’t think of anything else. And this kiss, Holly. It’s not like anything else. It’s better than a fuck.”
Better than a fuck. It’s not the most poetic words a girl’s ever been told, but they work for me. He seems interested. And God knows I’m becoming obsessed with green eyes and a leather jacket. “We’re going to Reims tomorrow, but maybe when we get back, I can—”
