Page 18 of Sunday's Best

Holden Kearney is kissing me. He’s kissing me, and I’m still in the middle of letting that fact sink in when he pulls away. A bereft, unintentional whimper falls from my lips.

He smirks before kissing me again. This time with heat and demand, and with the intent to work through the overcharged tension that’s been between us. He breathes life back into my desolate body. Our kiss goes on and on, for forever and for not enough time. My lips feel raw from his short stubble, and my fingers have gone numb around the bunched cotton T-shirt held tight in my grasp.

“This is wrong,” he murmurs.

Kiss.

“We should stop,” I agree, breathing deep and savoring his smell, his taste, his feel.

Kiss.

“What about Logan?” Holden asks, and a tiny flicker of fear passes through his stormy, wanton eyes. “He’s my—” He kisses me again before he can think better of it. “And he’s your—” Kiss.

“And I’m not supposed to like you.” My head tips back, yielding to his mouth as it drags down the column of my throat.

“But I’m irresistible.” The vibration of his words rumbles against my skin.

“Insufferable is the word you’re”—I inhale sharply at the feel of his teeth pinching my skin—“looking for.”

My fingers rake over his scalp, catching in the soft, loose curls. His hair is even better to play with than I imagined.

“I don’t want to stop.” I whisper my admission.

“Me neither.”

“But we should.”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

After one final slow kiss, I rock back on my heels, but the burning only continues, grows. Kissing him is the closest I’ve ever come to understanding fairytales. I’ve been woken from a deep slumber, I’m transformed, I’m brought back to life.

“Fuck,” he says, scrubbing his hand up over his face. When his hand falls, the shift in his demeanor is immediate. It’s as if a door slammed shut somewhere behind his eyes.

“Now what?” I ask quietly.

“Now nothing. You’re Logan’s girlfriend.” He slaps the title on me like shackles. “I can't do this—whatever this is—behind my brother’s back. So let’s not make things weird.”

A bitter laugh crawls up my throat. “A little late for that.”

“Go to bed, Sunday. This was a mistake.” His eyes squeeze shut, and he gives his head a small shake. “I know you love to talk through everything, but I don’t want to hear it right now.”

My shoulders sag, the heat of embarrassment prickling across my chest and up my neck. “Go to hell.”

“Already there.” For a split second, the mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of the want underneath. There’s frustration, and maybe even a little bit of regret, too.

I stare at him, trying to reconcile the man who just kissed me like he’s been dying for the opportunity with the one now leaning against the counter, looking at me like I’m a play thing he’s already grown tired of.

Later that night, Logan crawls onto the narrow sofa bed beside me, and I pretend to be asleep. I’m rife with the apathy I was so desperate for—the beachy, floral scent lingering on his skin doesn’t even faze me. But I don’t feel the relief I thought I would.

The next morning I woke to the raucous sound of my alarm and the overpowering aroma of coffee, and the first thing I did was look for Holden. I needed confirmation that things could be normal again. We’d hurl snarky comments back and forth, he’d ask what I was reading only to side-eye the naked man on the cover, we’d drink coffee in comfortable silence, then go our separate ways.

Except Holden was long gone. And he stayed gone for the entire day, magically materializing for his team roping run with Logan, then disappearing immediately after. Logan smirked at his brother’s scarcity, making a comment that Holden must’ve found a buckle bunny to spend time with. And though I knew that wasn’t true, the idea of it hurt more than watching Logan traipse off into the dark rodeo grounds for another “poker night with the boys.”

I haven’t slept with Logan in well over a month, and I haven’t dared masturbate in the two weeks I’ve been travelling with them because neither brother has ever heard of knocking before entering. And honestly, I would have been fine going all summer without an orgasm, until I experienced Holden’s solid body pressed against mine.

Now it’s all I can do not to spend every waking moment imagining what that solid weight might feel like bearing down on me, anchoring my pelvis to the mattress.

When the water pressure coming out of the detachable shower head is too abysmal to get anything done, and my too-smooth, too-feminine hands aren’t quite cutting it for this fantasy, I curse out loud and head for my duffle bag.