Page 18 of His Last Shot

On the ride back to my place, he apologized over and over for his, as he called it, “error in judgement.” Then, to top the night off with a cherry on melted ice cream, he tried to kiss me.

He left with my palm print on his cheek, but not before calling me a tease as he stormed off. That’s it, full stop.

Johnny stalks two more steps closer.

He moves toward me, determined.

Two steps away.

With a thud, my back hits the refrigerator door. Johnny is standing centimeters from me now, his breath warm on my face as he peers down. And, dear Lord, his scent—something undeniably him—engulfs me. His eyes land on my lips. “Did you kiss him?”

I can’t form words as his hand skates up my bare arm. My lids flutter close. “Mm-hmm.”

His lips are right there , warm and close, as his hand, rough against my skin, rakes my arm. Up and down. Up and down. Up and—I'm not breathing.

“I don’t believe you,” he whispers. “Want to know what I think?”

My eyes fly open. We stare. The zippy knot in my chest isn’t moving.

It crackles and sizzles like a campfire.

Each touch from him a log being tossed at it, igniting it more.

I nod involuntarily. His lips tick slightly.

He knows what he’s doing right now. “The only thing on your mind that night was me. ”

God, he’s so right.

A searing heat from that darn campfire now radiates through my head with each word he speaks.

“As he stood beside you in his cheap rented Men’s Warehouse tux, you ached for me.

When he pulled up in his Kia Soul, you wanted more than anything to be sitting in the passenger seat of my truck, with me in the driver’s seat. ”

My whole body comes alive as he reads me like a book. His voice is low, and God help me, nothing but … all man … as his truthful words roll off his tongue. This pent-up chemistry I have for him vibrates within me, a frantic hum, and I swallow hard, trying to push it away.

It doesn’t work.

“And when his hand landed on your lower back while you were dancing”—his large palm spreads across my back, tugging me to him—“you wanted it to be mine.”

Plan? What plan? I had a plan?

“And when his lips touched yours, it was my face that you saw. My lips that you felt.” His mouth inches closer. “Tell me you feel what I feel when I’m with you. Tell me.”

I’m pretty sure I am having an out-of-body experience at this point. My eyes close. “I feel it.”

“What do you feel?”

“Alive.”

And that’s exactly how my body reacts as his mouth lightly grazes mine in yet another feather-light kiss.

It comes alive.

He’s tentative at first as his mouth glides over mine softly, waiting for me to kiss him back. But this time, I don’t pull away as I did before.

My hand skates around his waist as I pull him closer and press my mouth against his. It’s all the signal he needs. He intensifies the kiss as a satisfied moan vibrates from deep within his chest.

God, his lips are divine. Soft yet powerful. Smooth yet demanding .

This is our most intense kiss yet, and it’s perfection. His hand lands on my waist and squeezes as he pulls my chest flush against him while his other hand slams on the stainless steel behind me.

And that’s when I snap out of it.

Again.

I can’t do this. Because what happens next, after this world-altering kiss, is him leaving me as soon as he finds out about my RA.

A sharp intake of breath escapes my lips as the weight of this realization settles, severing our connection. His head whips back, eyes wide as he searches my face. Both of us are panting and out of breath. I avert my gaze to the floor.

“God,” he mutters as he pushes off the refrigerator door and takes steps backward. It’s as if someone has flipped a switch on all my senses because the noise of the bar fills the air. His kiss lingers on my lips as my tongue darts over my bottom lip, getting one last taste.

The chemistry and energy that were coursing through the air only moments ago are painted with uneasiness and tension.

Seconds crawl by as I muster enough nerve to take him in.

Johnny is having a staring contest with ceiling tiles.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed that. ” I blurt out, but don’t mean it.

He groans, the sound heavy with frustration, with hands planted firmly on his hips, his gaze remains fixed on the drop ceiling.

I wait for him to do something. Say anything.

But he just stands there, trying to find answers in the air above his head, his chest rising and falling.

He releases a long, weary sigh, the sound deafening in the quiet kitchen, before walking past me to leave.

Without sparing a glance, he pauses at the threshold.

What have I done? He can’t even look at me?

He doesn’t turn around, his back a rigid, unyielding wall of muscle, but glances slightly to the right.

“Please be careful, Rachel. Dexter is a bad guy. If you need any help at all, you can call me anytime.” Pausing, his back heaving, the unspoken words a heavy weight, he continues with a strained voice.

“And just so you know, when I’m with you, I feel more alive than I have in my whole life. ”

With that, he pushes the swinging door open, and he’s gone .

My hand shoots to my mouth, unable to stop the raw, guttural sob that bursts forth.

What is wrong with me?

My back slides down the refrigerator door, and I lose it, not knowing how my stiff joints will get me back up again.

Maybe I deserve to be at the bottom, feeling anything but alive now that he’s gone.