Page 37 of Something Spontaneous

That’s why I followed her back here—because I want answers.

The fact that she’s now grinding on my thigh while I kiss her senseless is only an added fucking bonus. My cock is throbbing in my jeans, and my restraint is about to snap.

This kiss is hot—it’s frantic, it’s charged. I’m ready to throw her over my shoulder and carry her into that bathroom. I don’t care if there’s someone in⁠—

“What the fuck was that, Sly?” She pushes against my chest, ending the kiss abruptly, far earlier than I was ready for. “That wasn’t an invitation to kiss me again.”

Towering over her, I look down into her unblinking eyes, which burn into me with the same intensity as the heat building at the base of my spine. This time, the hunger has ignited into a fiery rage directed right at me. “Really?” I pull her phone that she left on the table from my pocket and hold it up, waving it at her. “Because you left this.”

Her eyes flit back and forth between mine and the phone in my hand. Her brows furrow in annoyance because I’m literally holding the trump card. Her lips part like she wants to say something, but she shuts her mouth again because she knows what I’m getting at.

All through high school, our phones were our way of making excuses to see each other. One of us would always pretend to forget our phone so the other would have to take it back to them. That’s how we’d end up climbing all over each other in supply closets, empty classrooms, the motel, or the garage, wherever we could get seconds alone.

“Oh, fuck off, Sly,” she huffs, folding her arms under her breasts. The way her arms prop her tits up, even in her hoodie, is so fucking distracting that I have to pry my eyes away. “I told you, that was nothing. I was just doing you a favor.”

“Really?” I arch a brow. “Because as much as I appreciate that act of charity, stop bullshitting me and tell me the truth. You felt that too, didn’t you? I know you felt something, because you were about to use my thigh…” I don’t finish that sentence because I made my point, and she knows it.

Her lips part, and she rears back in shock, or maybe disbelief, that I called her out. There’s still some spark—or smoldering ember—between us that hasn’t burned out yet, even if we wanted it to.

My lips curl into a smirk. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You wish.” She scoffs. She tries to stand taller—creating a buffer between us—even if it’s only inches, because at six-four, I still tower over her.

She’s right though. Part of me does selfishly wish she felt that spark, even if the sane part of me hopes she wants nothing to do with me or this town. I don’t want her to want me, but I can’t deny I like knowing that I’m not the only one who’s thought about the other for years.

All of this is still my fault, and that single notion is enough to dull my aching need for her. It makes me focus on the one thing I’ve wanted to tell her for all those years. I take a steadying breath before doing just that.

“I’m sorry.”

She gives me a confused look. “You’re sorry?”

I don’t think she fully grasps why I just apologized. While it’s been eating away at me for most of a decade, I’d be fine without explaining it tonight—or maybe ever. That’s why I settle for the easy answer.

“Yeah, you’re right. I shouldn’t have come back here and kissed you.”

She studies me for a second, and I take that time to enjoy the way that ruby red flush creeps up her neck. It brings my eyes to her freckled cheeks and ruffled hair. Everything about her is red—like my burning desire that I need to bury deep down again, as soon as possible.

“Good,” she says, smoothing out her hair—or as much as you can smooth out a pixie cut like hers, “because I’m right. That kiss was nothing. Remember that.”

She maintains that tall, confident posture. I know her well enough to pick up her tells and I can see that she’s still spiraling internally, just like me.

Unlike me, not only can she hide how she feels from everyone, she can convince most people she’s feeling the exact opposite.

Me? Apparently, everyone says I brood and always look miserable. Her? She could have a full breakdown and convince everyone around her that she’s having the time of her life.

She shimmies and takes a step forward, catching me off guard. I plant my good foot and steady myself, right before she pulls the collar of my shirt. “You can still thank me. Like I said, I don’t think she’ll be bugging you anymore.”

I know her well enough to admit that I should back down and not challenge her anymore. I begrudgingly give in.

“Fine. Thank you,” I grit out.

“Good,” she says. Her expression softens, but I can’t help notice her grip on my shirt doesn’t relent. If anything, we’ve crept closer. The corner of my mouth starts to tug up into a grin. I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s conflicted right now.

I want her near me like this every second for eternity, and then some, but I also need her as far from me as possible because I know how this will play out. I’ve always known since her parents ruined everything. Inevitably, she’ll need to leave this town again and never want to come back.

The thing is, I can’t pull myself away, and neither can she. We’re stuck in this staring contest in the back of a bar, and my decision-making becomes more questionable every second that I breathe in her piña colada body wash or look at her gold septum ring.

I want to say, ‘fuck it’, lean down and kiss her again. She can use my thigh as much as she needs.