Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “Because I’m not sure you want me to kiss you.”

            “Oh.” I nod. My hair tickles his nose. He scrunches it, and I laugh. “What if I told you that I do? Would you kiss me then?”

            “I still don’t think so,” he says calmly. Seriously.

            My smile fades. Oh, shit. Shit, I made a mess. “You don’t want to?” My voice is small, insecure. He shakes his head.

            “That’s not it.”

            It must be. What else? “Right.” I’ve been in his arms for a while, but suddenly I feel self-conscious. He’s not okay with this. He used to be attracted to me, but not anymore. I’m overstepping. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go too far.”

            “You don’t understand, Bee.” A small smile. Our foreheads touch, his skin warm against mine. I really, really want a kiss from this man. I want it bad enough to burn. “You can’t go too far.”

            “Then why . . . ?”

            His eyes flutter closed. His lips move closer. “I’m terrified that you won’t go far enough.”

            When Tim kissed her for the first time—after a screening of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which I later found out he slept through—eighteen-year-old Bee called her sister to say she’d had the loveliest of kisses. But eighteen-year-old Bee was a fool. Eighteen-year-old Bee had no idea. Eighteen-year-old Bee overrated that Tim wasn’t overly clumsy and brushed his teeth. And twenty-eight-year-old Bee would consider going back in time to slap her upside the head, but she’s busy having a real, true, actual, honest-to-God good kiss.

            The best kiss.

            It has to do with how slow it starts. With the way Levi and I breathe against each other for a moment, just breathe and taste the air between us. It should feel ridiculous, but there’s something unique about how he looks at my mouth from lowered eyelashes. Wrapped around him like I am, I can feel his pounding heartbeat, the heat of his skin, and suddenly I’m not scared anymore. He wants this—he wants me. I know it in the liquid, messy warmth of my abdomen, in the red spreading over his cheekbones, in his breathing, even faster and louder than mine.

            “Bee.”

            The tension stretches so unbearably tight, we might as well be on different sides of the world. So I close the distance, and then it’s not slow anymore. It’s hard and fast and open-mouthed. Wet and pressing and half bites. It’s messy, the least smooth kiss of my life—but maybe it’s not a kiss at all. Just two people trying to be as close as possible. His hands are sliding up my ass. My nails are in his scalp. He grunts choppy, surprised praise into my throat—“Yeah. Yeah.”—licks the dip of my collarbone, and I’m on fire, half a minute of this and I’m already aflame, pulsating with want and need. I have no brakes: I grind myself helplessly against him, my nipples hard against his chest, his hard abs the perfect slate for my core to rub on.

            “You are so—” He groans deep, like he’s halfway to insane. I’m too busy desperately seeking friction to even try to keep up with my end of the kiss, but it’s okay. He’s got me. His large palm comes up, wraps around my neck, angles my head sharply, just so. His tongue is inside my mouth, pressing against mine, and . . .

            Dirty. This is not a kiss—this is dirty. Obscene. He pushes me against the wall, and I push back, and back, and back, like there can be no air between us. His hand under my shirt is possessive, confident, so large that it completely spans my rib cage, and I arch up, swallowing a whimper in the back of my throat. My head is spinning, my body is melting, I can hear bells, and—

            Not bells. A phone. Ringing. It slowly penetrates the thick haze of Levi mouthing my breasts, leaving a wet trail over my T-shirt—God oh God. “Your phone,” I whisper, forcing myself to still my hips. It’s the loudest my voice will go. Then one of his hands slips inside the back of my panties, and he starts grinding me up and down on his abs, and I forget what I meant to say. It’s the exact spot, the exact rhythm I’d been trying to reach. He learned it, and he’s helping me keep it up, fingers digging into the flesh of my ass. A perfect thrust. He growls, and I whimper at the spear of pleasure. My eyes roll in the back of my head, and . . . Yes. Right against— Yes.

            There.

            “Levi,” I gasp. “Your phone—do you maybe want to—oh—pick up?” Or we can just continue until the ache disappears. Yes, that would be lovely. And stopping would be unbearable. Is that his cock rubbing against my ass? No. Impossible. No one’s that big, right?