Page 14 of Returning to Pine Ridge
I step closer. “It’s already real, Atlas. You’ve been living it. Recording it just means you stop pretending.”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stands up straighter. He’s only a few inches away now. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Okay,” he says. “I want to do it.”
The frog in my throat prevents me from speaking but I don’t move away. Neither does he.
“Atlas,” I say, my voice lower now. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“That I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the party.”
His breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. “I’ve been thinking about it since you joined me at the Bookshelf Café.”
I reach out and push him gently backward until his back hits the bookshelves. The books press against him, and he gasps slightly. Then I kiss him.
It’s soft and slow and deep and fast all at the same time, like we’re trying this kissing thing for size but already can’t get enough. His hands come up and grip my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I can feel his heart racing against my chest.
When we break apart, he’s breathless.
“You,” he starts, “kiss good.”
“You too.”
I kiss him again, and this time his hands move down my back, pulling my shirt up slightly. My skin is hypersensitive to his touch. I want more. I want everything.
“Is the door locked?” he asks against my lips.
“It is now,” I say, reaching over to flip the lock without breaking contact.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His hair is disheveled, his lips are swollen from kissing, his eyes are dark with want.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” I say.
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Can I taste you?”
His eyes become darker than I’ve seen them in the short time we’ve spent together.
“Fuck. Yes.”
I drop to my knees and reach for his jeans. He doesn’t stop me, but his breathing is ragged as I unbutton him and pull down the zipper. I ease his jeans and underwear down his thighs.
He’s already hard, and the sight of him makes my mouth water. I look up at him, holding his gaze as I take him in my mouth.
He makes a sound—half gasp, half moan—and his hand comes down to grip my shoulder. I work slowly, deliberately, paying attention to every sound he makes, every involuntary thrust of his hips. His other hand grips the bookshelf behind him for stability.
“Kai,” he breathes. “That’s … oh god.”
I build the pace gradually. His hips start moving with me, and I can feel the tension building in his body. He’s close. So close. His breath catches, his fingers dig into my shoulders, and then he’s coming undone beneath me with a gasp that turns into my name.
He helps me up, and we switch positions. He pushes me against the shelves, and the books dig into my back. He kisses me hard, then drops to his knees.
