Page 77 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

I put one hand on his thigh. For show. To make it look real. His swallow is audible.

“And of course that one is Andromeda being eaten by the Kraken,” he says, continuing his nonsense as if I just agreed with him. “She was chained to a rock and it came back every day to eat her liver, again and again.”

I’m a mess of warring impulses: to laugh at his mythology mashup and to collapse against him like lovers in a complicated Renaissance painting. To follow my own damn rules and to move my hand an inch higher on his thigh, just to see what happens.

“What about that one?” I say, nodding at a random section of sky.

“So glad you asked,” Silas says, shifting against me, somehow drawing me closer. “That’s Triton, king of the mer-people. And naturally, over there—” he points past my face, “—is his arch-nemesis, the Minotaur.”

His lips are practically touching my ear again, and my eyes slide closed. I swallow hard.

“Remind me why they’re enemies?” I say, hoping I don’t sound like I feel.

“Something to do with twelve tasks, I think.”

“Silas,” I say, turning to face him. “Have you ever read a single—”

It’s a breathless rush of a kiss: his hand gripping my jaw, his mouth on mine, my sentence unfinished on my lips. It’s hot and needy and insistent, the day’s stubble scraping along my lip as he turns his head, parts his lips, sinks his hand into my hair.

I feel like a knot, unraveling. His thigh flexes under my hand and I move it into his hair, twisting toward him, the bench underneath us slippery, the kisses open-mouthed as the Ferris wheel spins and the car rocks and we lower to the hubbub of the fair, to eye-level and he pulls back for a moment, his fingers tangled in my braid. Our faces an inch apart.

“Take it out,” he rasps, his fingers trailing down the plaits. I can feel the puff of his breath on my lips and I’m half in his lap, dress hiked too high, his shorts against my bare skin.

“Say please,” I whisper back, but Silas grins and nips at me, catching my lower lip between his teeth as his fingers find the hair tie at the bottom.

“You do like when men beg,” he murmurs, and then he’s pulled it loose and we’re rising again, his fingers sifting through my hair and his mouth back on mine before he wraps the strands around his fingers and gives a light pull.

Pleasure runs over my skin like water, even though I resist. I bite his lip in return and I swear he laughs, the sound low and earthy. Then he pulls again, fractionally harder, and this time I let my head go back and his lips trail down my neck.

I make a noise. I swear in a desperate, breathy whisper, and in response I get the sharp scrape of teeth against the skin of my throat. I bite my lip so I don’t beg him to keep moving down.

He doesn’t. He stops and works his way back up and I clench my teeth against a moan before his mouth is back on mine and he lets my hair loose and God, I want to climb into his lap and rub myself against him. I didn’t think to make dry-humping against our rules.

Then the car swings to a stop, the din of the fair at a full roar, and we pull apart. My breathing’s too hard, my glasses are askew, and I’m way too turned on for pretending that he’s my boyfriend when my intended jealousy target isn’t even here.

I feel like my lips might be bruised from how hard I kissed him. I feel like my ego might be bruised for the same reason, and I stare into his blue eyes with mounting anxiety that I just gave myself away, that somehow Silas can tell I wanted every second of that and more.

So I take my hand off his leg and clear my throat and the Ferris wheel car we’re in swings lower, people entering and exiting the ride, and I smooth my hair and cross my ankles.

“Good show,” I say, politely as I can. “I think they bought it.”

There’s a hesitation on his face, a flicker in his eyes like something wild nearly surfaced, but then I get that easy smile as he runs a hand through his wild hair and makes a show of relaxing.

“I think they did,” he says, and then it’s our turn to disembark.

* * *

Later that night,I’m standing in my bathroom, brushing my teeth, when I spot something in the mirror.

I lean in, mouth frothy and toothbrush clenched in my teeth, until I’m three inches away and I can see it properly without my glasses: a light purple bruise on my neck, ringed with red.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss, spraying toothpaste flecks onto the mirror.