He Kissed Me First (Kiss & Make Up Book 2)

by Sara H Ney

  I can hear Jenna and Abby still bickering in the kitchen, and sit on the edge of my bed, letting myself fall back into the center of it. Staring up at the ceiling, it’s not long before I hear the sound of the door creaking open, click closed, then my mattress dips as Molly slowly lowers herself down beside me.

  She doesn’t say anything; instead, she starts finger combing my hair and staring off at the wall, probably contemplating what words of wisdom she wants to impart on me.

  We sit like this for a long time, only the sound of our two friends arguing in the other room fill the air. Finally, I roll over on my side, facing Molly and looking up at her.

  She continues playing with my hair, but quietly says, “You know... you can’t avoid it forever. It’s not going to go away.”

  As if I didn’t already know that.

  “Why does life have to be so complicated?” I finally ask, barely above a whisper.

  Molly laughs softly under her breath, tussling my hair, then bends softly to whisper in my ear. “Silly, silly girl. If love was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Matthew

  “I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to woman, and that’s kind of how I like it.” - Bernie

  “Repeat that last part for me. I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Weston says, skating a circle around me on the ice, his hockey stick tapping the ice in repetitive motion.

  “You heard me just fine the first time,” I grit out, irritated.

  “Yeah, but I want to hear you say it again. I want to make sure I have all the details correct when I repeat it later.” He skates away from me, backwards, and sticks the tip of his tongue between his teeth, making me wonder how exactly I’m able to put up with his bullshit.

  My hockey stick slices the puck to him in a fluid motion (I don’t mention the fact that I’m aiming for his head), and his eyes widen as it flies towards him through the air. His stick goes up, breaking the pucks path mid-flight, and it lands with a smack down on the ice.

  “You know Matt, I always knew this day would come.”

  “You know Wes, this is why I aim pucks at your cocky ass face.”

  He gasps in protest and lifts his glove to his chin. “You would purposely mar this beautiful face? Matthew, how could you?”

  My only response is to skate around him, easily stealing the puck resting between his skates. Weston responds with a ‘Sonofabitch,’ chasing me in earnest in an attempt to steal it back.

  We skate down the center, and I check him with my elbow, grinning broadly. “Try and keep up, son.”

  I change directions, heading back towards the opposing goal, the small round puck slicing back-and-forth in front of me in the precise, clipped, rhythmic motion that’s made me famous.

  We cat-and-mouse like this until we’re both breathing hard, and I feel a sense of superiority that he hasn’t managed to steal the puck away. Leaning up against the boards by one of the penalty boxes, I take off my glove, grab a sports bottle and squirt the cold water down my throat, gulping half its contents in one swig.

  Weston extends his hand, and I hand him the bottle. He guzzles it until it’s empty, hands the bottle back, and wipes his mouth with the back of his red and white jersey.

  “So? How does it feel?” He stares at me, his intense blue eyes boring into me inquisitively. God, he’s as nosey as my sister. Worse, even.

  I roll my eyes. “Cold. Refreshing.”

  “Ha ha, real funny smart ass. You know I’m not talking about the water. Come on, come on, spill it before everyone shows up for the team meeting,” he says, referring to the Badger Hockey team’s imminent arrival for a post-game recap meeting. We arrived early and suited up solely to put together a few plays for the Lightening.

  I rest my elbow on the wooden wall and sigh. “Do you have a vagina somewhere under your pads that we don’t know about? Christ, you’re worse than my mom.” This does nothing to deter him. In fact, I think it only encourages him more.

  He presses on. “Just repeat the part where Cecelia tells you to shut up.”

  Glaring at him, I shove off the boards and skate towards the door to the locker room, my skates cutting into the ice in fluid motions, leaving shavings in wake. I hold my arm in the air, raising my middle finger in a solute.

  He trails after me, his laughter echoing off the high rafters in the ceiling. “Oh come on baby, don’t be like that,” he croons.

  My skates stop on a dime, and he almost slams in to the back of me as I spin around to face him. “Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?”

  He shrugs, and I fight the urge to punch his well-defined jaw.

  Defeated, I sigh again, propping my stick out, jut my hip for balance, and lean on it. “I don’t know where to go from here. I laid it all out there and now I guess it’s her decision.”

  Weston scrunches up his face in thought, then slowly asks, “But did you bring it up to her before, or just that night at Starbucks?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Did you just spring it on her out of the blue, or have you had an actual conversation about it. One where you laid out all the facts?”

  I wipe away the sweat that’s dripping down my forehead under my helmet, give my hairline a scratch, and let out a confused “Er...”

  “Er? Is that your answer? Man, no wonder she got pissed.”

  “What the fuck was I supposed to do?” I yell, flapping the free arm at my side in frustration.

  “You were supposed to sell her on the idea, dipshit. Give her the reasons she should go with you. Fuck, dude, are you that clueless?” He watches me for a few seconds, assessing, then blows out a stream of breath. “Look man, I’m hardly the one to be giving you advice - this one might be way over my head. My advice: you either wing it and try your luck again with Cece, or, call your sister.”

  “Why do neither of those options sound appealing?”

  Weston shakes his head and nods towards the locker room. “It’s your call but you need to decide, quick.” He gives his pits a hard whiff and makes a face. “The shower is calling my name and the meeting starts in twenty. Let’s not be standing here like a couple of girls at a slumber party when everyone gets here. We look like goddamn Sally’s.”

  ***

  I hate admitting when I’m wrong, but in this case... Weston may have had a point; I needed to get this shit figured out, and quick.

  Hopping out of the shower in my condo, I stand on the terry cloth floor mat, running a white towel up and down my arms to dry off, debating my options.

  I look at myself in the mirror, gazing back at my reflection, taking in the hard edges of my mouth, the deep scar above my entire left eyebrow, and the crooked bridge of my nose.

  Last night at practice with the Lightening, little Kyle Adams - who has terrible aim - took a slap shot at the goal but nailed me instead, narrowly missing my eye, and giving me a nice, purple and blue shiner.

  It hurt like hell, and looks even worse.

  And now that I mention it, Kyle cried and apologized repeatedly for a solid thirty minutes, snot dripping out of his nose and on to his practice jersey.

  I touch the bruise and find it still tender, then give pause to study my other contusions: fractured collarbone. Gashed lip. Chipped tooth.

  Wincing, I continue to dry off, wrapping the towel around my lean hips before walking into my closet. I grab a ratty tee shirt, jeans, and a Michael Kors Henley sweater, throwing them on quickly before adding shoes. I head to the foyer, grab my cell phone and keys off the dresser, stuffing them in my back pocket and head out the door.

  **Cecelia**

  Back in the good old day - you know, when I was in high school - one of my favorite things to do was shack up in my bedroom and hunker down to study. I’d throw myself across my bed, lying flat on my stomach with text books scattered out in front of me and do my homework that way.

  So, in homage to those days, I’m spread out on my comforter, text
book and papers fanned out, laptop glowing - and yes, even a bag of pretzels is on “stand-by” not too far away on the desk.

  I’m comfortable: black yoga leggings and a heather gray, off the shoulder, cashmere sweater. On my feet are the most comfy (see: worn) chenille socks. Basically, it’s like I’m giving myself a big warm hug, and I snuggle down with my butt in the air, Pandora playing Taylor Swift’s new 1989 playlist softly through my pink ear buds.

  I tap the keys on my laptop, humming to her new single ‘Style’ and briefly space out, before stopping to stare blankly at the plain white wall of my bedroom. I’m so so ridiculously close to being done with this last paper, but right now I’m finding it impossible to concentrate. Rather, my mind continues to drift, wandering everywhere; my Master’s program, where I’m going to live in a few weeks, and then yes... it eventually wanders to Matthew.

  I wonder what he’s doing right now; is he home, or out? Alone, or with his friends. Is he pissed at me? I haven’t heard from him since Starbucks, which was two days ago, and, for someone who claims he wants to live with me, it’s pretty telling that he hasn’t had the decency to even text.

  Rude.

  I’m so lost in thought that I don’t hear the bedroom door crack open, and gasp when a large pair of strong, solid hands slowly run up the back of my calves, up my inner thighs, and squeeze my ass cheeks.

  I pull out the ear buds and look over my shoulder at a grinning Matthew.

  “How’d you get in here?” I ask, not the least bit put out by his presence. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “I came down the chimney,” he retorts, stepping in between my legs, which are sticking half-way off the bed. His hands lazily run up my spine, and he leans forwards, planting a kiss on my naked shoulder. “I missed you.” Matthew’s breath is on my neck and I swallow a shudder, determined to remain nonchalant.

  “Did you now,” I gulp, voice sounding way too throaty to be calm, cool, and collected. If I don’t watch myself, I’m going to be a puddle of mush within minutes. “Never would have guessed it. You never called.”

  He leans forward and presses another kiss on my shoulder, his chest pressed against my back as he trails his breath along my neck. I close my eyes and bite my lip - I’m sorry, but it feels so good. “I wanted to, but I also wanted to give you some time.”

  I lay there, on my stomach, as Matthew hovers over me, bracing one strong arm on bed and running his other hand up my rib cage, under my sweater, all the while breathing warm kisses on my bare neck and shoulder. I tip my head to the side, and let out a soft moan.

  “Did you miss me, too, Cecelia? It sounds like you did.” His tongue slips in my ear and my traitorous body tingles all over.

  “Of course I did, you big idiot,” I groan, amazed at my ability to speak under the circumstances.

  Even as he chuckles deep in his chest, Matthew’s pelvis pushes into my backside, and I can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric of my leggings as he begins grinding himself slowly into my ass crack.

  Seriously, it feels so good I want to pass out from the pleasure of it all... and we’re both fully clothed - that takes talent.

  “We need to talk,” he whispers, the low timber of his voice sending ripples of lust coursing through my body, through my cerebellum, down my chest and to the apex of my thighs.

  “Whatever it is, yes,” I moan, arching my back and pushing my rear into his denim clad erection.

  “You little hussy,” he says as his free hand finds its way up my shirt and he unclasps my bra. “Flip over and give me a peek at the goods.”

  Giggling, I squirm under him until I’m on my back, staring into his heated gaze. We lock eyes for only a moment before our lips crash into each other, teeth and tongues clashing in a frenzy. Gasping for breath, I unlatch my mouth only to ask, “Did you lock the door?”

  Matthew grunts, burying his face in my neck while his hands roam up my chest, under my bra. Fingers idly trace my skin, then skim the underside of my breasts... back-and-forth, back-and-forth goes the tip of his index finger, grazing the delicate skin with every teasing stroke. “What do I look like, a fucking amateur?”

  “Shut your foul mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” I hiss, pulling his head down to mine, my lips like a heat seeking missile as his calloused palm covers my aching breast. “Mmmm...” I moan into his mouth, for what seems like the tenth time tonight, and arch into his hand.

  “I love your tits,” Matthew groans out into my mouth, squeezing one softly, then lavishing attention on the other. “They’re the perfect handful.”

  Hearing him refer to my breasts as... as... well, T-I-T-S, makes my cheeks blazing hot - so hot, I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed my flaming red face. But at the same time it’s embarrassing me, I’m also extremely turned on by his crude description. It makes me feel a bit saucy, sexy, and incredibly desirable.

  Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Baby, that feels so good,” than clamp my mouth shut before I can utter anything else that sounds so cliché.

  “Talk dirty to me,” Matthew demands, his hand now in the waistband of my leggings.

  “I am not talking dirty to you,” I laugh and wiggle my hips, encouraging his hand to go lower. “Nice try though.”

  “It was worth a shot,” he grins down at me and studies my face, his messy auburn hair falling in his eyes. “Wanna get naked?”

  I nod, and immediately we’re both fumbling with our clothes; pants flying this way and that, shirts, panties, and boxer briefs landing on chairs and the carpet; and just like that, he’s back on top of me.

  Somewhere in the recess of my mind, I hear a door within the apartment open and close, dismissing it in favor of running my hands along Matthew’s insanely muscular torso, the tips of my fingers alive with a thousand nerves. He shutters when my fingers circle his nipples, giving them a little tug, before I take one in my mouth and give it a good suck.

  After that, it’s nothing but the sound of skin-on-skin. Mouths and tongues. Moaning, gasps, and groans. At one point, he leapt off the bed to retrieve his jeans, leaving me withering around the bed like a limp, turned-on, two dollar hooker, waiting impatiently for him to slide in to me.

  When he does, my head goes back and although we try to be quiet, we aren’t the least bit successful. “Uh... uh... Oh God,” I gasp.

  “Oh fuck... oh fuck, baby... you feel so good,” he counters and thrusts so hard the headboard knocks against the wall... once, twice, oh God, three times (I’m not surprised; hockey players success is all in the swivel of the hips). It feels too good to give a shit that the bed is pounding into the wall behind us.

  My hand snakes down between our bodies and, in a move I once read about in Cosmo Magazine (and one you might want to look into yourself), my finger finds its way up under his boys, and press down a sweet spot there.

  “Oh my god, this is why I love you,” his low gravely moan is like a prayer whispered into my hair.

  His words are an aphrodisiac to my soul, and I can’t stop the threat of tears at the corner of my eye. My breath hitches as he grinds his pelvis. “You...do?”

  His reply is to grunt, and within moments - together - we’re both throwing our heads back, shuddering, and going limp.

  Being with him tonight is like a dream; a glorious, romantic, dream - only this dream is real.

  And he’s here.

  And he’s mine.

  **Matthew**

  For a while, we just lay there; Cecelia’s head buried in the apex of my armpit, hauled up close next to my body by arms of steel. She’s biting her lip, and wants to say something, but she either can’t find the right words - or she’s completely chicken shit.

  I put her out of her misery, crossing my free arm over my chest to rake my fingers through her hair as we lay there. “Yes. I love you. I mean - did you really think I’d ask you to move across the country with me if I didn’t?”

  She avoids my gaze, the ceiling becoming real interesting all of the sudden, and s
hrugs her bare shoulders. “How do you know?”

  “How do I know what?”

  “How do you know you love me? It’s only been like... a few weeks.”

  I snort. “Please. Besides the fact that you’re fucking amazing, you’re the only woman on the planet that I didn’t sleep with immediately. That’s saying something.”

  “Um... and what is that saying, exactly?”

  I look down at her, tilting my chin down to get a better look. “That I respect you. Better yet, that I liked you from the very beginning. You led me on a merry chase, but it was worth it.”

  She smacks me in the chest. “I did not lead you on a merry chase! Well, not on purpose anyways. I simply loathed you.”

  “Tomato, toe-mah-toe. You call lit loathing, I call it playing hard to get. In the end, I win.” Her elbow digs in to my ribs, and I gasp. “Hey! Watch the merchandise!”

  “Who wins?”

  I roll my eyes. “We win.”

  **Cecelia**

  Later that same night....

  “So, next time you decide to screw in the apartment, could you at least give me a little advance warning?” Molly’s just walked in the door, and is setting her bag and keys down on the kitchen table. Hands on her hips, she turns to glare at me from my spot on the couch. “Well?”

  My face turns bright red. “I am so so sorry...”

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t sound sorry - it sounded like you were both being murdered. Oh Matthew, UH, UH, UH. Oh. My. Gawd.”

  “But I... I thought you’d left?” Hoped she’d left is more like it.

  “I did. But not before the Banging Headboard Show began. You’re lucky he didn’t bang you through the freaking wall. Gee-zuz.” She makes a loud gagging sound and walks to the fridge, opening it and peering inside. Her voice carries over the refrigerator door, and I can hear food being moved around. “As God as my witness, if I ever - ever - have to hear my own brother having loud porn sex again I will literally stab myself.”