Page 38 of Wish Upon A Star

“The other thing is, when we kiss…I feel it.” She licks her lips. “I mean, when we kiss, my insecurities fade. You kiss me and I feel beautiful. And honestly, that’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt.”

I could tell her a lot of things that would be true—that there’s so,somuch more to sensuality and beauty and sexuality than your body measurements; that desire isn’t logical; that attraction is complex and simple all at once.

In the end, though, the most effective thing seems to be to just kiss her.

She’s pressed flat up against me, and I touch her chin with a finger. Her lips part, and a breath escapes her, and then she lifts up on her toes and kisses me first. Her hands bury into my hair. Her lips seek mine, strong and warm and wet and insistent.

This time, she’s not kissing me to feel the kiss. She’s kissing me to explore the limits of the kiss. To seek the feeling of being desired. I feel my nerves singing—I want her, I really do, but I’m worried about taking it too far too fast, of pushing her into something she’s not prepared for.

I let her guide the kiss.

She pauses after a moment, to breathe—and then she meets my eyes. “I don’t want to stop kissing you.”

“Don’t have to.”

“I don’t know where it goes, from here.”

“Wherever you want it to.”

“That’s what I’m saying—I don’t know.”

“Whatever feels right.”

She rolls her hands over my shoulders. “Maybe we…”

I smile down at her. “Maybe we what?”

“Just kiss and don’t worry about stopping? Maybe if…if you wanted to touch me, somewhere, you could.” She licks her lips, searches my eyes. “When you put your hands on my waist…I liked that.”

I currently have my arms around her shoulders, holding her close. Now, I let my hands drop to her waist. To her hips. She bites her lip and her eyes widen, her breathing quickens. She doesn’t pull away; her fingers dig into my shoulders.

It seems like she wants to test her limits, a little. See what she’s okay with, how it feels.

So, I let my hands wander lower. Over the gentle swell of her hips, then pause, searching her for signs of even a nonverbalstop. I see none. I lean down and nip her lower lip, and she gasps. I kiss her as she gasps, tasting her inhale. Her fingers tighten, and she lifts to deepen the kiss. I offer her a tease of my tongue, and she responds immediately, hers slashing against mine greedily, eagerly.

Her hands leave my shoulders, and I can feel them trembling. She explores my biceps, my ribcage. My abs. She slips her hands up under my shirt, and I lean back, breaking the kiss momentarily—she takes the invitation for what it is, peeling my shirt up and off—where it lands, I don’t know.

Her hands are greedy, exploring my torso, finding each ridge, each divot and line and curve. Her mouth meets mine again, and we’re off together, still standing in the middle of the room.

Desire pulses through me—for more of her. I tamp it down, contain it.

Her tongue is eager, soaring through my mouth and tangling with mine. Her hands clutch my biceps, my chest, rubbing and massaging and raking. I run my hands over her head, scratching my nails against her scalp, and she shudders—she likes that. I do it again, and her knees buckle. I huff a laugh, but it doesn’t stop our momentum. If anything, she’s emboldened. Her hands go to my abdomen, tracing the outlines of my muscles there. Not quite as far as the button of my jeans, but damn close.

She’s ablaze with desire—I can feel it in her. Sense it in the way she kisses me, in the greedy, daring scouring of her hands on my body, the way she leans harder into me. Pressing her chest against mine, angling her hips into me.

She wants more, she just doesn’t know what that is.

I run my hands down her spine, over the shirt. Down, to the small of her back. I wait until she breaks the kiss to breathe, till her eyes meet mine. And then I cup her bottom—it’s small and tight and firm, fitting neatly into my palms. She gasps, eyes flying wide, tensing all over, just for a moment, and then she relaxes. A smile crosses her mouth.

I explore her backside, then, cupping, massaging, dimpling with my fingers, tracing the underside where it meets her thighs.

She’s barely breathing, lip caught between her teeth. “That feels…good.”

I just smile and tug her against me, hunger for her kiss making me impatient for more. She melts against me, and her hands go to my back. She finds my shoulder blades, the serpentine line of my spine. Lower, and lower.

To the denim over my butt, with a firm, declarative grip. Her laugh, then, is one of giddy disbelief. She pulls away from the kiss, but her eyes are mischievous, sparkling with delight and desire.

“You make me feel good,” she whispers. “About myself.”