hasn’t knocked, which means she’s still in the apartment. And she hasn’t blown the horn, which means she’s not yet made it to her car. The thought of Eight returning to his apartment and finding Madi lurking around causes me to panic. I grab the hem of his sleep-rumbled shirt and drag him forward.
We bump chests, both wide-eyed, both with hearts pounding. I know because I see the throb of his pulse in his neck below the scruff of a dusting of hair he has yet to shave off, which makes no sense. He’s always in a disarray of unkempt hair and tired eyes, but always clean-shaven.
Feeling somewhat bold, I reach up and rest my palm on his face, marveling at the scuff of rough bristle against my sensitive skin. He’s stark still, aside from his tongue, which sweeps out to moisten his lips. I think about kissing him, and not for the sake of distracting him away from Madi and his apartment. I think about kissing him for the sake of kissing him. I think about kissing him because he’s Eight, my lucky number, the guy the stars align with mine. And I think he wants to kiss me too.
He licks his bottom lip once more and leans down, cupping my face in his hands. My eyes automatically close. His breath is on my skin. His hands are in my hair. The strum of my heart rushes in my ears so loud, I’m sure he hears the frantic pulse. A featherlight caress of his nose brushes my cheek, and I tilt my head to one side, ready. Ready for our first kiss.
Someone knocks on the door. A short little tap, tap, tap .
“Ignore them,” he says.
His mouth touches the edge of mine, and I part my lips. One hand travels from my jaw to the back of my neck; the other settles on my waist. His thumb presses below my hip bone, in that delicate place inches from where I secretly wish he’d touch.
Lust almost makes me cave.
Tap, tap, tap.
Madi’s stranded in the hallway, possibly filled with the knowledge of who Eight’s hiding in his apartment across the hall, and I don’t care. I tease the corner of his mouth with my tongue before traveling lower. I nip the angle of his scruffy jaw, the column of his neck. His head lolls back, his moan filling the heated air. My hands touch his waist, one dipping low enough to cup his ass and squeeze.
God, he’s got a nice ass.
Tap, tap, tap.
Madi’s not leaving, and neither is he. He pushes me against the bar. The granite digs painfully into my lower back, but I ignore it. He brushes loose curls from my forehead and searches my face, looking for what, I don’t know. But he’s looking and looking deep. And he’s hard against my soft belly. Hard and thick and needy.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Jesus Christ.” Eight presses his forehead against mine, his eyes never wavering. “I want to kiss you.”
Screw his secrets, his evasiveness, his weird mood swings. “So kiss me.”
“Not like this.” He groans and takes a step back, his fingers intertwining with mine. “Not with someone knocking on your door nonstop.”
He lets me go altogether, and for the first time, as melodramatic and cliché as it sounds, I feel completely alone. Never have I considered myself the needy type, the kind of girl unable to function without a special someone in my life. It’s a cold, pathetic sensation. I wrap my arms around my torso, warming away the odd feeling.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
I divert my eyes from his probing gaze. No way am I looking at him. He’ll see the weakness there, and he’ll feed off it. This is how it starts, becoming one of the giddy, moon-eyed girls I remember in high school and college. I always sort of mocked them, in my mind at least. They’d get swept away by one guy, and then dumped in a matter of days, weeks. Sometimes even a year or two later. Falling that much in love only to have it snatched away is a terrifying feeling for someone like me, a person who doesn’t share her true self with anyone, even her family.
“Six.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Eight releases a
We bump chests, both wide-eyed, both with hearts pounding. I know because I see the throb of his pulse in his neck below the scruff of a dusting of hair he has yet to shave off, which makes no sense. He’s always in a disarray of unkempt hair and tired eyes, but always clean-shaven.
Feeling somewhat bold, I reach up and rest my palm on his face, marveling at the scuff of rough bristle against my sensitive skin. He’s stark still, aside from his tongue, which sweeps out to moisten his lips. I think about kissing him, and not for the sake of distracting him away from Madi and his apartment. I think about kissing him for the sake of kissing him. I think about kissing him because he’s Eight, my lucky number, the guy the stars align with mine. And I think he wants to kiss me too.
He licks his bottom lip once more and leans down, cupping my face in his hands. My eyes automatically close. His breath is on my skin. His hands are in my hair. The strum of my heart rushes in my ears so loud, I’m sure he hears the frantic pulse. A featherlight caress of his nose brushes my cheek, and I tilt my head to one side, ready. Ready for our first kiss.
Someone knocks on the door. A short little tap, tap, tap .
“Ignore them,” he says.
His mouth touches the edge of mine, and I part my lips. One hand travels from my jaw to the back of my neck; the other settles on my waist. His thumb presses below my hip bone, in that delicate place inches from where I secretly wish he’d touch.
Lust almost makes me cave.
Tap, tap, tap.
Madi’s stranded in the hallway, possibly filled with the knowledge of who Eight’s hiding in his apartment across the hall, and I don’t care. I tease the corner of his mouth with my tongue before traveling lower. I nip the angle of his scruffy jaw, the column of his neck. His head lolls back, his moan filling the heated air. My hands touch his waist, one dipping low enough to cup his ass and squeeze.
God, he’s got a nice ass.
Tap, tap, tap.
Madi’s not leaving, and neither is he. He pushes me against the bar. The granite digs painfully into my lower back, but I ignore it. He brushes loose curls from my forehead and searches my face, looking for what, I don’t know. But he’s looking and looking deep. And he’s hard against my soft belly. Hard and thick and needy.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Jesus Christ.” Eight presses his forehead against mine, his eyes never wavering. “I want to kiss you.”
Screw his secrets, his evasiveness, his weird mood swings. “So kiss me.”
“Not like this.” He groans and takes a step back, his fingers intertwining with mine. “Not with someone knocking on your door nonstop.”
He lets me go altogether, and for the first time, as melodramatic and cliché as it sounds, I feel completely alone. Never have I considered myself the needy type, the kind of girl unable to function without a special someone in my life. It’s a cold, pathetic sensation. I wrap my arms around my torso, warming away the odd feeling.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
I divert my eyes from his probing gaze. No way am I looking at him. He’ll see the weakness there, and he’ll feed off it. This is how it starts, becoming one of the giddy, moon-eyed girls I remember in high school and college. I always sort of mocked them, in my mind at least. They’d get swept away by one guy, and then dumped in a matter of days, weeks. Sometimes even a year or two later. Falling that much in love only to have it snatched away is a terrifying feeling for someone like me, a person who doesn’t share her true self with anyone, even her family.
“Six.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Eight releases a
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