It’s a beautiful sight.
Samson falls into the chair, gripping his jaw. “I’ve been slapped by a girl and punched by two guys since you showed up.”
“Then stop taking my side.”
Samson looks at me with a small grin, almost as if he’s saying, “That’s not gonna happen.”
“You’re bleeding.” I grab a nearby towel and wipe his jaw. He’s got a small gash across his jawbone. Beau must have been wearing a ring. “You should put a bandage on that.”
Samson’s eyes change as he stares back at me. “I have some at the house.” He pushes out of his chair and walks around the fire, heading home.
He doesn’t even invite me or wait on me, but I could tell from his expression he wants me to follow him. I press a palm against my neck, feeling the heat rising to my skin. I stand up. I glance at Sara before I walk away.
“Remember,” she whispers. “A signal. A high five.”
I laugh and then follow Samson to his house. He’s several yards ahead of me, but he leaves his door open when he goes inside, so he knows I’m following him.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I blow out a calming breath. I don’t know why I’m nervous. We kissed last night. The hardest part is over.
I close the door when I walk inside. Samson is at the sink, wetting a paper towel. I walk into the kitchen and notice he didn’t turn any of the lights on. The only lights in the house are coming from the appliances and the moon shining through the windows.
I lean against the counter to get a look at his cut. He tilts his head so that I can inspect it. “Is it still bleeding?” he asks.
“A little.” I pull back and watch him as he presses the wet napkin against his jaw again.
“I don’t have any bandages,” he says. “I was lying.”
I nod. “I know. You don’t have shit in this house.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but there’s something heavy weighing his smile down. Whatever that heaviness is weighs me down.
He pulls the napkin away and tosses it on the counter, then he grips the edges of the counter like he’s having to hold himself back.
He’s not going to make the first move this time, no matter how much he seems like he wants to. And as nervous as I am, I want to experience a whole kiss with him, from beginning to end.
Samson’s stare is like a magnetic pull, coaxing me toward him. I step closer, my movements timid. No matter how nervous I seem, he doesn’t push it. He just waits. My heart is pounding in my chest when it’s clear to both of us that I’m about to kiss him.
It feels different than last night. It feels more significant since we’ve both spent the last day thinking about it and have obviously come to the conclusion that we both want it to happen again.
We maintain eye contact as I lift onto my toes and lightly press my lips to his. He inhales while my mouth is still against his, as if he’s summoning up patience that no longer exists inside of him.
I pull back a fraction, needing to see his reaction. His pointed gaze and parted lips are a promising hint for whatever might happen next. I don’t feel like I’ll end up running out of this kitchen again now that I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours regretting that move.
Samson lowers his forehead to mine. I squeeze my eyes shut when he wraps a hand around the back of my head. He keeps his forehead pressed against mine and I imagine his eyes are closed, too. It’s like he wants to be close to me, but he knows he can’t hug me and he doesn’t know if he should kiss me.
I tilt my head back on instinct, wanting his lips against mine again. He accepts the silent invitation by kissing the corner of my mouth, then the center of it. He releases a shaky breath, like he’s savoring what’s coming.
His hand that’s wrapped in my hair angles my head back even more, and then he kisses me with confidence.
It’s slow and deep, like he might not survive if he doesn’t swallow a little bit of my soul in this kiss. He tastes like saltwater and my blood feels like the sea, raging and crashing through my veins.
I want to live in this feeling. Sleep in it. Wake up in it.
I don’t want the kiss to end yet, but when he starts to slow it down, I like how he does it. Gradual, careful, difficult, like he’s coming to a halt about as slow as a train could.
When we’re no longer kissing, he releases me, but I don’t move away. I’m still pressed against him, but he’s gripping the counter again on either side of himself rather than gripping me. I appreciate that he isn’t wrapping me in his arms right now.