Her eyes fluttered closed just as his lips touched hers. She knew his taste. Maybe that was because she knew the scent of his breath. Despite the newness of this, their first kiss, in some ways, it felt like coming home. A home where a hundred ghosts dwelled, maybe there to live in peace, but maybe there to rattle their chains deep in the dead of night. He dragged his tongue slowly along the seam of her lips, and she opened, pressing closer.
His arms came around her, and he wove the fingers of his scarred hand through her hair, cradling the base of her skull. That felt good. She’d never been touched that way. She sighed into his mouth and met his tongue with her own.
Before that second-floor room, she’d only kissed three other boys. She barely remembered any of them except that they hadn’t been very good at it. Evan was good. He was very good.
Their kiss was slow. Deep. Divinely passionate. She could do this. He was going to give her all the time in the world, all night if that’s what it took. She was certain of that. And because of it, her confidence grew, and so did her enjoyment.
She melted. Her arms encircled him, and she pressed even closer, running her palms up his biceps to his shoulders and moving her fingers so that his pulse beat beneath them. She felt the bulge in his pants and the heat of his skin. He was turned on, but he did not make a sound. He was attempting to hold back his excitement so that he didn’t rush too far ahead of her.
Their lips broke, and he stepped back, his cheeks flushed and his lips wet from her mouth. He was so beautiful, not just because of his features or his hair but because of the intense concentration on his face as he stared at her and made her heart nearly stop. He gripped the hem of his T-shirt and brought it over his head. He’d obviously been working out. He was strong and sleek. She allowed herself a moment to drink him in before she, too, pulled her shirt over her head.
This was different too. New memories to replace the others. Ones where they weren’t haggard versions of themselves—exhausted, hungry, thirsty, fearful, desperate.
They both undressed, gazes heated as each piece of clothing was removed. She felt the first buzz of anxiety when his erection sprang free, but she breathed through it, toeing her clothes aside and sitting down on the edge of the bed. She lay back, and instead of coming over her, he lay next to her, turning toward her. Evan reached out, moving a piece of hair off her cheek. She felt shy, but excited, intensely present in a way she hadn’t felt in any other part of her life recently. She had the fleeting thought that this was what it would have been like if Evan had taken her virginity rather than the disgusting old man wearing a strange, silver, expressionless mask who’d had onion on his breath and grunted as he’d raped her.
As if sensing her sudden mental distress, Evan pulled her to himself, running his fingers gently over her spine. “It’s hard for me, too, sometimes,” he said at her ear. “To think about touching anyone else. I think about you, Noelle. I can’t help wonder . . .”
She brought her lips back to his, quieting him. She didn’t want him to speak of anything other than now. No promises. No plans. She knew at least part of him still carried misplaced guilt for what had been done to her, and it wasn’t necessary. It had been done to him too. If this helped alleviate that false concept, then she was glad because this wasn’t only for her. But it shouldn’t be more.
She turned toward him as they kissed, sliding her leg over his hip and bringing their cores together. His breath hitched, and he pulled back slightly, looking in her eyes, reading her. His left hand splayed on her skin, over her heart.
She moved her arms, cupping his hand between hers and bringing it to her lips. He sighed as she kissed his fingertips, slowly, one by one. “How is it?” she whispered. “Really?”
“Stiff. Sore. But it works,” he said on a small breath-filled laugh. “Physical therapy helps. The doctors think that in time, it will be mostly normal.”
“Sort of like the rest of us?” she asked on a smile. She’d said it jokingly. But really, it was true. Or so she hoped.
“Exactly,” he said, a smile flitting over his lips. “Mostly normal. In time. It’s a pretty good prognosis, don’t you think?”
She shrugged. Talking to him like this, so close, their skin bare, was causing her blood to move faster in her veins. She felt warm, hopeful. “As far as prognoses go, yes. It could be worse.”
He laughed softly, and it fell over her like a piece of velvet caressing her skin. She shivered slightly, nipples growing hard. She could feel undone with a throaty laugh. What a nice thing to know.