Page 48 of Puck the Coach's Son
“What?”
“Give me.”
I lift them. He takes both my wrists in one of his, not hard, just holding. The hand on my throat moves to my jaw. He tilts my head back an inch.
He kisses me.
I haven't been kissed.
I've read about kissing. I've seen it in hockey girlfriends' tagged photos and late-night movies my father doesn't know I watch. I got told by a girl in tenth grade named Brianna that she wanted to kiss me, and I told her no, politely, and I was gratefulfor the hand Paul had on the back of my life that gave me a reason to say no.
I haven't been kissed.
Maddox Creed kisses me.
His mouth is warm. His lips aren't soft. A day of stubble on his jaw catches the corner of my mouth. The touch is a small fire. My knees do a thing my knees have never done. He's very close. He smells like gym sink water and soap and something underneath that's a man who's worked a day. He tastes like nothing and like heat.
I make the sound again.
He smiles against my mouth.
He pulls back half an inch.
“There it is,” he says.
“What?”
“That sound.”
His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry.”
“I didn't mean to.”
He tilts his forehead into mine.
“I know you didn't mean to. That's why I want it.”
He lets go of my wrists. He puts both hands on my face. He looks at me.
He looks at me like he can't believe I'm in front of him. The look isn't soft. It isn't cruel. It's a look I'll think about for ten years.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“I—” My mouth has gone dry. My tongue is too big. I've had precisely one kiss in my life, fifteen seconds ago, and Maddox Creed has asked me to tell him what I want.
He waits.
“Laurent.”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
I close my eyes. I open them.
