by Chelsea Fine
He kisses me back, and there’s nothing between us anymore. Sadness and pain and loss and regret still exist, but they swim around us, unable to break through the wall we built decades ago. With friendship. With love.
His mouth moves against mine as he wraps his hands around my body, holding me steady, setting me free. My lips part and his tongue sweeps inside, pulling hot breaths from my chest as our tongues meet and mend.
I grip his shoulders, trying to climb up his body so I can sink into him. His hands lock on to my waist and his fingers slip under the raised hem of my shirt, pressing into my back. I can feel each pad of his fingers, like small flames branding fingerprints into my hips, my spine, my bare skin.
I lift up on my tiptoes as our kissing becomes desperate and breathy, shoving my hands into his hair and feeling it run through my fingers for the first time. It’s intimate, the feel of his hair gliding between my fingers.
His hands run under my shirt and around the sensitive skin of my belly. I whimper into his mouth as every muscle in my body is clenching beneath his touch. I want to arch my back. I want to climb inside him.
His mouth moves to my throat, where he barely sets his lips against my windpipe. Not kissing. Not licking. Just breathing. And God, I’m melting.
My body is wet and wanting, and I want to cry almost as much as I want to howl. I tip my head back and gasp as his tongue slowly burns against the vulnerable skin there.
I cup his face and pull his mouth back to mine so I can kiss and grab and hold every piece of him. His scruffy jaw sits in my palms as I devour him, and I love the sensation of his rough stubble against my soft skin. Burning me. Marking me.
He picks me up and moves us to the bed, where I’m soon on my back and rolling my hips up to meet him. We pull at each other’s clothes and skin and hair until he’s only in his jeans and I’m only in my panties. I’m out of breath and wild inside. I feel like an animal and a goddess at the same time, tearing into him with my tongue and my nails and not getting enough. Not nearly enough.
His hand runs up the inside of my thigh to right where I need him, and my eyes flutter. Guttural sounds fall from my mouth, and he growls—he growls—in appreciative response. God. I want him to growl more.
I run my paint-covered hands all over his body as his mouth travels to my chest. He pulls his head up and stares down at my scar in the stormy moonlight, and my body tenses.
I’m afraid he’s going to change his mind and stop touching me. But instead, he slowly leans back down and presses a soft kiss to the top of the scar.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. He places another soft kiss just below the first, his lips featherlight as they brush against the red mark. “I’m so sorry you wear this.”
I skim my hands up his back and into his hair, stroking the strands as gently as he’s kissing my scar and loving that his lips—Levi’s lips—aren’t afraid to touch my brokenness. “I’m not.”
He looks up from under his dark lashes, his mouth still against my damaged skin.
“My scar reminds me of my hero,” I say.
At first, I think he’s going to refute my words. But quick as lightning, his mouth is back on mine, kissing me like he needs me. And I need him right back.
His back is too broad for me to get a good grip on him, but I sink my fingers into his shoulder blades anyway, grasping at his hot, slick skin as he kisses down my jaw and over my chest. He sucks on my nipple, and I’m pretty sure I would scream if I wasn’t so busy trying to catch my breath. He suckles and cups my other breast as I arch in to him and yank him tighter to me before he moves his mouth down to the sensitive skin of my lower stomach and pulls my panties off.
His hands, his mouth, his everything, work against me, finding wetness, finding the only part of my body that can leave me empty of everything but primal need, and then his mouth is between my legs.
Not touching me, just breathing—which is crazy arousing. Hot, deliberate exhales tickle the sensitive flesh spread out for him, and it’s all I can do not to scream and cry and wail in desire. I shove my hands in his hair and grip his head as his tongue slips from his mouth and slowly licks a trail up the crease where my hip meets my thigh and back down to the most southern skin of my belly. And then slowly, so slowly I think I might die, his warm, wet tongue gently strokes the very center of me with three soft caresses.
Holy hell. Sweet Jesus in heaven. Son of a biscuit eater. I’m in heaven.
Figuratively. Literally.
Heaven.
His tongue rolls over me twice more, and I cry out and fall apart and lose my mind under the blinding and brilliant sensation of his mouth. My thighs tremble violently as I arch my back and claw at the sheets. I don’t know where I am or what my name is or how to breathe, but who the hell cares about minor details like breathing?
Levi Andrews just undid my whole world. With his tongue.
“Condom,” he says breathlessly.
I force my eyes open. “What?” Is someone talking to me? Who DARES to interrupt my bliss?
“Condom,” he repeats.
“Oh. Yeah,” I say. “Good idea. Uh…” My brain doesn’t work. My brain doesn’t work. “My purse!” Brain working now. “My purse.” I point to where it sits on the floor.
He shimmies off the bed and starts digging through my bag. “Why do you have so many condoms in here?” He pulls one out and rips it open.
“Because my best friend travels like a porn star,” I say absently, my muscles flexing with needy bliss.
Did I just call Jenna my best friend?
Levi climbs back on the bed. “Remind me to ask you about that later.”
“Absolutely,” I say, my body still quaking. “We’ll have that conversation right after our conversation about knocking on Pixie’s door before entering her bedroom.”
He puts the condom on and smiles. By the time he’s hovering over me again, I’m pulling at his large body, trying to bring him into me like my vagina is starved and dying. On his elbows above me and with his body up against mine, he stops and stares down at me. Terrified. Nervous.
I shift my hips and whisper, “Please.”
“You sure?”
“God, yes. Yes, yes, yes—”
He pushes into me and I howl like a werewolf. Seriously. It’s that kind of doglike sound that comes out of my mouth. But I don’t care because Levi is inside of me and I feel complete.
He slowly pulls out, eases back in, and I moan impatiently. I don’t want slow.
I’m pulling at him, slapping at his back for more, for faster, and he just smiles at me, driving me crazy with slowness and gentleness.
I whisper, “Pleasepleaseplease—”
And then he shoves inside me, deep and full, and starts pumping away just like I need. He rocks out of me, then back in, until I’m once again on the verge of barking at the moon. I’m clawing at his back, breathing out moans and breathing in spearmint and safety and friendship and hope and healing.
Lightning strikes, and the room fills with thunder and blue light.
Yes.
Rain beats down on the window. The lavender field outside.
God, yes.
He groans and I whimper and we move against each other, two shadows merged into one against the flashing storm outside the window. Nothing has ever felt so right as Levi’s body inside me, his arms around me, and his mouth against me.
He works me to the brink of heavenly bliss again, and I come apart again, losing my mind, and probably my voice, as he thrusts into me one last time.
Lightning. Thunder. Panting. Racing hearts. Rain.
Love.
* * *
I wake up in Levi’s arms, morning sunlight glowing in from the window and lighting our bodies. I’m draped over his chest, my naked body rising and falling with each of his deep, even breaths. His skin is soft beneath my cheek and warm against my hands.
Everything before this moment seems like limbo, like I forgot who I was. Like without Charity and Levi
to anchor me, I was cast into nothingness, all alone. Lost.
But here, in the warmth of Levi’s arms, I’m me again. Free. Brave. Flawed. Loved.
I want to cling to him for dear life, afraid that if he lets go, I’ll get lost again. I don’t want to be lost. I don’t want to be anything other than what I am right now.
I look him over. A line of bright blue is smeared across his pecs, and a dash of green paints his jaw. I lift up slightly and gaze down at his body. Bright strokes of red and yellow, blue and purple, mark here and there. Evidence of my paint-stained hands on his skin. I look at my stained hands and then at my own body, finding more vivid colors slashed against my hips and chest and arms.
Green and blue strokes smear across the bedsheets, and a splotch of yellow runs along the shell of his ear. A smile plays on my lips as I trace a green finger across a blue stroke on his collarbone. We’re a complete mess. A perfect, colorful, naked mess.
Naked.
Oh God. My scar.
Sure he saw it last night, but this is the light of day. This is undeniable reality.
I start to slip out of the warm bed so I can search for a shirt or scarf or something, but Levi’s fingers wrap around my wrist before I can make my escape.
I quickly position my free arm over my chest in an awkward attempt at covering up my damaged skin. Not my boobs, however. Those babies are just hanging out in the open like they’re trying to get a tan or something.
“Where are you going?” He opens his sleepy eyes and looks up at me.
My room! The bathroom! A pet store! All better answers than what actually comes out of my mouth.
“Boob tan.”
“Boob tan?” He starts to smile, but his eyes drop to my chest and his smile fades. “Pixie,” he says softly. “Move your arm.”
I make a face.
He slowly pries my arm from my chest, and now my scar is just there. In between us, under the sun and highlighted in blue.
I hold my breath.
He moves his fingers up my arm and traces them gently over my elbow, up along my shoulder, and back down my scar. The touch is so careful and unburdened I could cry.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his eyes roving over my naked body. For the first time, no part of me wishes to hide from him. Not my scar, not my body, not my heart, my dreams, my fears. Nothing. I want to be completely seen by him and known by him and loved by him and—
My heart starts to race.
I love him.
Oh my God. I love him.
I mean, I’ve always loved him. But I just realized I love him in the mushy gushy kind of way. The irrevocable way. The true way. The way that changes you forever.
And I’m suddenly scared out of my mind.
“I have to go,” I say, quickly moving off the bed.
I wrap myself in a sheet and look around at the paint stains on the floor and the walls. Crap. We’re in my room. It’s hard to flee gracefully and without question from your own room.
I twitch my lips. “I mean, you have to go.”
“What?” He sits up with a furrowed brow.
“You have to go,” I repeat, looking just beyond him so I don’t meet his eyes. My gaze lands on a red handprint on my headboard and my heart twists.
“Pix, what’s wrong—”
“Fine, I’ll go!” I throw a hand up and stomp out my door like a true drama queen. I don’t look back. I don’t blink. I just shut myself in the bathroom across the hall and stare at the blue dots on the wallpaper until everything goes blurry.
Love—real love—that’s going all in. That’s putting everything at stake. But I can’t lose him again. We’ve barely recovered our friendship, and this—whatever this is—could backfire and steal him away from me forever. And what’s going to happen when summer ends and school starts and life gets real? Oh God, oh God.
Things need to go back to being normal. Platonic. Friendly. Sexless.
God, did I really have sex with Levi last night?
I did.
Hot sex. Great sex. Real, honest-to-God, clawing-at-the-sheets-and-begging-for-more sex. And it was everything it was supposed to be. I wasn’t distracted or caught up in my own head. I was a crazy lunatic who couldn’t get close enough to Levi’s skin and his mouth and his hands, and it was perfect. Powerful, stormy, perfect sex.
But never again. I can’t afford to lose Levi, so I can’t risk having him.
The blue dots grow even more blurry as my eyes fill completely.
56
Levi
I tap my knuckles on the bathroom door. “Pix?” I hear her sniffle from within and my stomach drops. “Please let me in.”
She opens the door but only halfway, looking up at me through hastily dried eyes as she clutches her bedsheet to her chest. “Leaves, hey,” she says, like this is a perfectly normal conversation.
I pause. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She sniffles again.
I lean into the bathroom, occupying her space so she can see me, really see me, when I say, “What’s wrong? Was it… was it last night?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “No. Last night was perfect.”
I scan her face, completely at a loss.
She looks at the floor and swallows before looking back up at me. “Remember when we were like eleven and twelve and you taught me how to fish? I thought fishing was disgusting, which it is, but you taught me how to bait a hook and cast a line and wait patiently for a bite? And we fished all afternoon but didn’t catch a single thing? But we didn’t care because we had fun all day joking about what it would be like to grow up and be famous and drive fancy cars and have butlers?”
I slowly nod.
She swallows again. “That’s what I need from you, forever. Friendship.”
“You have that.”
“Do I?” She shakes her head. “Because I thought I had that when I was eleven, but then I lost you after Charity died, and I… I can’t lose you again.”
“You’re not going to lose me.”
“But I could.”
“You won’t.”
“But I COULD.” She overenunciates the last word with defiance in her eyes.
I lean back. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying.” She inhales. “I’m saying that we need to be just friends. No complicated sex stuff or relationship stuff. It’s too risky. We could lose each other. We could lose everything we’ve just barely started to repair.” Her voice is incredibly steady despite the tear rolling down her face. She swipes it away.
A muscle flexes in my jaw. “You want to be just friends?”
She nods.
“Pix.” I lean back in, closer this time. “We stopped being just friends before Charity died.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs with a jerk. “Maybe if we had stayed just friends I wouldn’t have been trashed that night and I wouldn’t have told Charity to drive drunk and—”
“Bullshit,” I snap.
“I’m being serious.”
“You’re making excuses.”
She says, “For what?”
“Hell if I know. You’re standing there in a sheet covered in sex and blue paint, trying to tell me that we should be just friends?”
“Think about it! What if we jump into something and it all goes to hell, what then? No more friendship. No more us. No more… anything.” Her voice cracks. “I can’t DO that, Levi. I can’t.” She shakes her head. “Please don’t ask me to risk losing you again.”
“You’re not going to lose me—”
“Please?” she pleads as another tear falls.
I watch her in silence for a long time, half of me wanting to scream, the other half wanting to surrender completely and disappear forever.
“So you want to go back to being just friends.” I nod and take a step back, my jaw still tight. “Like last night never happened.”
I see pain flash in her eyes, but it’s gone just as fast.
“Yes,” sh
e says quietly.
I blink, still baffled. But in the midst of all my bafflement and hurt and silent screaming, there’s a part of me that gets what she’s afraid of and shares in her fear.
“So can we do that?” she asks, waiting. “Can we be just friends?”
I take another step back and raise my hands in surrender.
57
Pixie
It was the right decision. It was. Levi and I don’t need to add any more drama or complications to our lives anyway.
I take a shaky breath and knock on Jenna’s door.
It was the right decision.
She answers with a surprised smile. “Hey. I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“I’m afraid of lizards,” I blurt out.
She stares at me. “Okay…”
“And I hate eighties music. I truly do. I know it’s blasphemous to say so, but there it is. I hate Van Halen and Billy Joel and Cyndi Lauper.”
“Cyndi Lauper? Really?”
“And I’m afraid of losing people. Like abnormally terrified. And I’m scared out of my mind that you’re going to die and it’ll be just like Charity all over again and I’ll never recover and I just can’t—”
“Whoa. Slow down.” She holds up a hand. “I’m not going to die, Sarah.”
“But you could.”
“Well… sure. We could all die.” She shrugs. “But that’s just reality. Come here.” She pulls me into her apartment, drags me to the couch, and forces me to sit down. “Now, what is this really about?”
“Nothing. I’m just scared of you dying.”
“So you suddenly decided to knock on my door and confess your distaste for Van Halen? Uh-uh. I don’t think so.” She squints her eyes. “Does this have something to do with Levi?”
“No.”
“Sarah.”
I huff. “Yes.”
She looks at me sympathetically. “What happened?”
I not-so-briefly fill her in on all of the kissing and sexing and painting and crying of the last twenty-four hours—Jenna wanted every dirty detail and I had no qualms handing each one over to her—and for a moment, she just stares at me with her face twisted into a cross between utter confusion and extreme disappointment.
