I narrow my eyes. “How do you know about lymph nodes?”
“I had the flu last year,” he reminds me. “Shhh, and let me finish my diagnosis.”
My cheeks grow hot.
“You’re flushed,” he nods and tries to suppress a growing smile. He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans my head back against the pillow, kneeling and towering over me. “I have to listen to your heart.”
“No,” I retort weakly, not in the mood to play with him. Not when it always has to end with me tense and aroused and needy. He loves to tease me, and I worry about the day where I won’t have the strength to say no.
He ignores me and places his ear to the bareness of my collarbone, the place peeking from my V-neck shirt. I inhale a sharp breath, his face too near. After a long moment, he rises a little and says, “I knew it.”
My eyes narrow. “Knew what?”
His hot gaze traces my lips, and then flits back up to my eyes. “You’re suffering from a clear case of…” His mouth brushes my ear. “…infatuation.”
I slap him on the arm and try to sit up, but he’s ready for me. He leans in and tickles my waist and hips so quickly that I never see him coming. And I laugh and squirm beneath him until I cry out for him to stop, happy tears squeezing from my eyes.
We settle down with heavy breath. Both lying on our sides, our feet tangled together, we stare at each other in the easy silence.
“And what’s the cure?” I ask, playing along this time, even though I know I shouldn’t.
He wears a crooked grin that could melt a thousand girls.
Very softly, he says, “Me.”
My eyes pin to his soft lips, begging me to press mine to them. He leans in a little, but doesn’t close the gap, uncertainty still lingering. It feels like his body pulls me into it, a magnetic force too strong to fight. I scoot nearer, and my foot brushes his bare ankle. His breathing deepens.
I can’t stop staring at his lips, imagining what they’d feel like against mine. Soft, forceful, hungry. My resilience sputters out and I bridge the distance, landing a quick kiss on his lips before pulling away. I think I hoped the chaste, PG-rated kiss would satisfy my desires. Nope. In fact, all I want to do is wipe that silly smile off his face with a deeper one.
“What was that?” he asks, amused. His lips skim mine and fall back teasingly.
“My cure,” I say, playing along. It makes this less real. Right? Still on our sides, our bodies have moved closer and closer on their own mission, separating from our brains. His hand runs up and down my back, stopping at the dip above my waist.
“That was the wrong dose,” he whispers.
“Oh.”
It only takes him a moment before he leans in and our lips mesh together, mimicking the state of our bodies. His hand cups the back of my head and he sucks on the bottom of my lip, making them ache all over again. My lower half starts to move out of instinct, pressing harder into him as the kiss deepens. His tongue slips into my mouth and a moan escapes my lips.
I have to detach. “Lo,” I whisper, trying to clear my mind and assess what the hell my body is doing. Literally, I’m gripping his shirt and my leg has somehow made it over his hip.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he reminds me, breaking away from the game. “I want to give you something.”
Something. Vague—and in my perverted mind, I’m thinking of all types of nefarious things.
“You already gave me flowers.” But I don’t remove myself from this position—pressed so tightly against him that I can feel the slow rhythm of his heartbeat against my chest.
“Something better.”
I want it. Even if I don’t know what it is. But there are some lines I can’t cross with Lo, no matter what he offers me, so I ask, “What?”
He pulls my head into his chest and brushes my hair back. I feel his warm breath as he leans into my ear and whispers, “I want to make you come.”
Inside, I am cheering at the idea but my head starts shaking on another, different automatic setting. I move my head back while my body stays glued to him.
“No?” His eyes rise and he props himself up just a little by his elbow. “I thought it was the perfect Valentine’s gift, especially since I planned to keep all your clothes on.”
My heart begins to beat even quicker at the prospect. We’ve done things since we started “fake” dating. When we practice making out, it sometimes leads to touching and stuff, but I’ve managed to stop before it progressed to a climax. Sex isn’t the same thing as fooling around. The latter of which has been a staple in our pretend relationship. It’s been a couple weeks since my last lay, and I already made plans for this Saturday to get my next fix. I strike at any opportunity to attend a party thrown by a public school kid, and I don’t know if doing something with Lo today would be right.