Page 16 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

The first brush of his lips is barely there, a ghost of contact that steals my breath and makes my heart stumble. He kisses me like I might break, soft and tentative, tasting of wine and something darker.

I lean into it, chasing more, and he groans low in his chest. That sound wrecks me. My fingers fist in his shirt, tugging him closer, and that’s all it takes for him to snap.

The kiss deepens in a rush, hotter, hungrier. His tongue slides against mine, claiming, demanding, and I moan into his mouth. He swallows the sound like it fuels him, kissing me harder, his hand tangling in my hair, holding me right where he wants me.

Every second it builds, sharper, rougher, until I’m dizzy from it. There’s nothing gentle anymore, just heat and need and months of tension burning all at once.

The blanket shifts beneath us as I push into him. He falls back, dragging me with him until I’m straddling his hips. My skirt rides up, my knees press tight around him, and when I grind down the friction makes me whimper.

“Fuck, Isabella…” His voice is guttural, his hands gripping my hips, dragging me against him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Then die happy,” I whisper before crashing my mouth back onto his.

It’s frantic now, wild, teeth and tongues and gasping breaths. His hands roam up my sides, sliding beneath my top, calloused palms burning against bare skin. I arch into him, kissing harder, grinding down until my whole body feels like it’s on fire.

He tears his mouth from mine, sucking in air like he’s drowning, but his eyes stay locked on me, blown wide and desperate. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, princess.”

I press my lips to his, breathless. “I think I do.”

And then I kiss him again, deeper, harder, losing myself completely under the stars.

His hands grip my waist, dragging me down harder against him. I can feel him straining through his jeans, the friction sharp and relentless. Heat coils low in my stomach, sparking higher each time I move.

“Fuck…” he groans, broken, rough. His hand slides higher beneath my top, his thumb brushing the side of my breast. I gasp, arching into his touch.

“Isabella,” he breathes, tight with restraint. “Tell me what you want.”

The stars blur above us. The world narrows to him. “You,” I whisper. “I want you to touch me.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes, control snapping. His hand drifts down my stomach, slow, deliberate, until his fingers slip beneath my skirt. Rough fingertips skim the inside of my thigh and every muscle in me goes taut.

I gasp into his mouth as his hand edges higher, teasing, not rushing. The anticipation is maddening, my body trembling with it.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, reverent. “So fucking beautiful like this.”

“Hunter—” My plea cracks.

He doesn’t make me beg twice. His fingers brush over the thin lace between my thighs and my whole body jolts.

A strangled gasp rips from my throat, nails digging into his shoulders. The touch is light, too light, and it makes my hips buck into his hand, desperate for more.

Hunter’s eyes darken, his jaw tight. “Fuck, look at you.”

He presses firmer, dragging his fingers slowly over the lace, back and forth, until I’m trembling above him. My thighs quake, my breath breaks in short, frantic bursts.

“Please,” I whisper, the word spilling out before I can stop it.

Hunter groans, his mouth crashing against mine. “That’s it, princess. Take what you need.”

He circles me once, slow and deliberate, and I shatter, clutching, grinding, unravelling completely under his touch.

“Fuck, princess,” he growls, kissing me hard as his hand presses firmer. “You’re already so wet for me.”

The words rip me open, heat flooding through me as his fingers stroke purposeful circles over the lace, exactly where I need him. My hips buck, chasing every spark.

I don’t care that we’re outside, that the stars are watching, that I swore I’d never let this happen. All I care about is the way he’s unravelling me with every stroke, every kiss, every word.

And for the first time in forever, I don’t fight it. I give in completely, recklessly, under him and under the stars.

?

It’s the next morning.

Not even twelve hours since I kissed Hunter Hayes under the stars. Since I straddled him on a blanket like I didn’t care who could see. Since I begged him to touch me and actually let him.

I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on me, his mouth, the way his voice broke when he said my name. My body remembers it too well. My brain won’t let me forget.

Now the world feels louder. Too bright. Too real.

The worst part is I don’t know what it means.

To Hunter, maybe it was just another win—proof that his relentless flirting finally wore me down. To me, it felt like more. Too much more. Enough that it terrifies me.

So I do the only thing I can. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend I didn’t unravel in his arms like someone who should know better.

Pretending doesn’t stop the ache in my chest or the way my stomach flips every time I think about him. And God, I think about him constantly.

It works until I push open the door of The Maple Bean.

He’s there.

Leaning against the counter like he owns it, black t-shirt stretched across his chest, that lazy grin tugging at his mouth. In his hand? A cup.

“Morning, princess,” Hunter says smoothly, holding it out like it’s nothing. “Vanilla latte. Extra shot. Just how you like it.”

My stomach drops. “You—”

“Beat you to it,” he finishes, smirk deepening.

Panic claws at my throat. I spin like I can undo walking in, but he’s faster, stepping into my path with infuriating ease.

“Running already?” he murmurs. “Didn’t even get your caffeine fix.”

“I don’t have time for this,” I snap, pushing past him toward the door.

He doesn’t stop me. Just falls into step beside me, latte still in hand. “Then let me walk you. Like normal.”

The short stroll to work feels like a mile. Every step is too close. Every brush of his shoulder against mine makes my pulse trip. I keep my eyes fixed on the pavement, as if not looking at him will erase the way he kissed me.

By the time we reach the shop, my chest is tight, my hands shaking around the keys. I shove them into the lock, desperate for the safety of four walls between us.

But Hunter doesn’t follow me inside. He leans against the door frame, finally holding the cup out to me.

“I’ll give you space,” he says, softer now. “If that’s what you want.”

Relief floods me until he leans in, eyes catching mine.

“But don’t stand there and pretend you don’t feel this. Last night proved it.” His grin tugs, sharp and certain. “We’re way past pretending, Isabella.”

Before I can find words, he presses the latte into my hand, straightens, and walks away—leaving me in the doorway, heart hammering, vanilla and espresso burning against my palm.

I push into the shop like I can slam the door on everything Hunter just said. The bell jingles overhead, too bright, too cheerful for the state of my chest.

Mr. Whittaker looks up from behind the counter, glasses perched halfway down his nose. “Morning, Isabella. You’re early.”

“Give me something to do,” I blurt, clutching the latte like it’s a lifeline.

His brows lift. “Something?”

“Anything,” I insist, already dropping my bag under the counter. “Stocking, cleaning, sorting boxes, alphabetising… I don’t care. Just—something.”

He studies me for a long moment, lips twitching like he knows exactly what I’m doing but won’t call me out. “Boxes in the back. New shipment came in this morning. Think you can handle three crates of hard covers without collapsing?”

“Yes,” I say too quickly, already moving toward the storeroom.

The boxes are heavier than they look. My arms ache, my knees complain, but it doesn’t matter. That’s the point. If I’m busy enough, if I drown myself in the weight of paper and dust, maybe I won’t think about the feel of Hunter’s hands on my skin.

By the time I drag the second crate onto the floor, my cardigan is slipping off one shoulder, sweat dampening my hairline. Mr. Whittaker pokes his head around the door, amusement clear in his eyes.

“You asked for work, you got it,” he says mildly. “Don’t kill yourself in the process.”

“I’m fine,” I puff, already tearing into the next box. “Just… keeping busy.”

“Mm.” He hums like he doesn’t believe me. “Busy doesn’t always mean better.” Then he disappears again, leaving me with the weight of that truth.

I sink onto the floor, books piled around me like barricades. My fingers shake as I sort spines into neat rows, faster and faster, as if precision can keep me from replaying last night.

It doesn’t. Every time I slide another book into place, I hear his voice again.

We’re way past pretending, Isabella.

My phone buzzes against the floorboards. Ruby.

I stare at it like it’s a live grenade. Answering means questions. Questions mean Hunter. And I can’t—

The buzzing stops. Relief slips in. Then it starts again.

“Persistent menace,” I mutter, swiping to answer. “What?”

Her laugh is instant, smug. “Don’t ‘what’ me. I saw him this morning.”

My stomach flips. “Saw who?”

“Don’t play dumb. Tall, dark, smug as hell? Walked into my café like he owned it? Ordered your latte before you even showed?”

I close my eyes. “Ruby—”

“Oh my God, Isabella.” She drags my name out like a song. “He was waiting for you. With coffee. And then you left together. Tell me you finally kissed him.”

I drop my head into my hands. “Ruby.”

“Yep. That’s a yes. You sound guilty as hell.”

Guilt pricks at me as I hang up mid-laugh. I toss my phone onto the nearest stack of hardbacks like it’s cursed. Maybe if I bury myself in enough shelving, enough alphabetising, I’ll sweat Hunter right out of my head.

The bell over the shop door jingles. I ignore it, focusing on lining up spines.

“Isabella?” Mr. Whittaker calls from the front.

I jog out, dusting my hands on my cardigan. “Yeah?”

He tilts his head toward the door, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Seems you’ve got company.”

And there she is. Ruby.

Still in her café uniform, apron strings loose, hair pulled up like she sprinted straight from The Maple Bean. She leans against the counter, grinning like the cat who not only caught the canary but invited it to brunch.

I groan. “Seriously?”

“Take your break,” Mr. Whittaker says gently, already turning back to his clipboard. “You’ve worked enough for the morning.”

“Mr. Whittaker—”

“Break, Isabella.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Ruby wiggles her fingers at me, smug as sin. “Guess you’re stuck with me, Belle.”

She loops her arm through mine and drags me straight into the stockroom, ignoring my protests.

“Ruby—” I hiss, stumbling after her. “I’m working.”

“Correction.” She kicks the door shut behind us, perching on one of the unopened boxes like she owns the place. “You were avoiding me. Now you’re not.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “There’s nothing to avoid.”

Her grin is pure predator. “Then you won’t mind telling me what happened last night.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Nothing happened.”

Ruby gasps, clutching her chest in mock horror. “You mean to tell me Hunter Hayes picks you up at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, looking like a sin wrapped in denim, and nothing happened?”

I grab a stack of books just to have something in my hands. “We hung out. That’s it.”

“Hung out where?” she presses. “Because you didn’t come back here, and you definitely weren’t at The Maple Bean.”

I slam a book down on the shelf a little too hard. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!” Ruby bounces on the crate, excitement sparking. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this? The banter, the tension, the way you two orbit each other like magnets about to snap—this is my Super Bowl. And you’re telling me nothing happened?”

“Ruby.” My voice is flat. A warning.

She leans forward, ignoring it. “So what did he do? Dinner? Drinks? Something romantic? Oh my God, did he kiss you?”

I freeze.

Her grin explodes. “He did! He kissed you, didn’t he? Look at your face—you’re glowing!”

“I am not glowing,” I snap, cheeks blazing.

Ruby smirks, smug and relentless. “Uh-huh. You can keep playing the ‘just friends’ card, but friends don’t show up the next morning with vanilla lattes. Hunter Hayes doesn’t look at you like that unless it’s serious.”

Her words dig under my skin, setting my pulse racing. I stack faster, willing my hands not to shake. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” she says breezily, hopping off the crate. “Keep telling yourself that, Belle. I’ll be here when you’re ready to admit it does.”