kissing Dean like this without tackling him or bursting into tears. Or flames. Or screaming hysterically. Or flailing my arms and legs. Or passing out. Or doing all of the above. All at once.
Right on cue, as if he’s able to read my maniacal thoughts, Dean pulls back from our kiss. My entire body tingles like I’ve got fireworks going off in my nerve endings. My knees are weak.
Dean takes a small step back and cups my cheeks with his hands. “Shaynee,” he whispers.
I let out a long, audible, swooning sigh. “Dean.”
He smiles.
We laugh.
I want to kiss him again. I want to kiss him forever and ever and ever. I don’t want this night to end. What I want to do is lean toward him and demand that he kiss me again and never stop. What I want to do is leap into his arms. What I want to do is grab him by the hand and pull him to some far away place where we can sit together, forever and ever, and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss. What I want to do is scream, “I’m all yours!” at the top of my lungs. What I want to do is jump up and down. And on top of him.
But, of course, I don’t do any of those things.
“It’s after ten,” Dean says softly. “You’d better get going. We don’t want to start things off on the wrong foot with your dad.”
I don’t speak. I’m afraid I’ll say, “Screw my dad. Forget about my curfew. To hell with everything and everyone except you and me.” Since I know I shouldn’t say any of those things, I don’t say anything at all.
“Thanks for coming here tonight,” Dean says.
“Thanks for inviting me here,” I reply, finally able to muster a coherent sentence that doesn’t involve defying my father or hysterically professing my undying love to this beautiful boy. “Actually, thanks for wishing me here.”
He grins. “Yeah, that worked out pretty damned well, if I do say so myself.”
I nod in agreement. “Pretty damned well, indeed. Even though you cheated.”
Dean laughs. “I didn’t cheat.”
Reluctantly, I open my car door and settle into my seat. The scent of Dean’s leather jacket instantly fills my car. When I look back at Dean through my car window, he holds up his palm into a farewell wave and shoots me one last, ice-cap-melting smile.
Oh hell. I want to hurl my body out of my car and kiss him some more. I want to lean out my window and yell, “Get in!” and then haul ass across the Mexican border to some little fishing village where no one could ever find us, a place where we’d sit on the beach all day and night, laughing and writing songs together and eating rice and beans and handmade tortillas. And kissing.
But I don’t.
I want to slap my own face out of pure exhilaration.
But I don’t. Because only someone certifiable would do that, right?
Instead, I blow him a quick kiss, trying to make it seem like a casual “see ya later, whatevs” gesture, rather than the last sane act of a girl about to lose her mind to an all-consuming obsession. Then, even though it literally pains me to do it, I turn the key in my ignition and drive away.
Dad’s on his laptop at the kitchen table when I arrive home just before 10:30. When he sees me, he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s a school night, Shay.” His tone is stern.
“I’m sorry, Dad. It won’t happen again. I was having so much fun, I just lost track of time.”
When I say the word “fun,” I see the beginnings of a smile flicker across his mouth, but he stifles it. “Okay, honey, but it’s a school night. I can let things slide a bit on weekends, but not on school nights.”
“I know, Dad. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He looks surprised. “Say that again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No the other thing.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re right.”
“I was worried sick.”
“I
Right on cue, as if he’s able to read my maniacal thoughts, Dean pulls back from our kiss. My entire body tingles like I’ve got fireworks going off in my nerve endings. My knees are weak.
Dean takes a small step back and cups my cheeks with his hands. “Shaynee,” he whispers.
I let out a long, audible, swooning sigh. “Dean.”
He smiles.
We laugh.
I want to kiss him again. I want to kiss him forever and ever and ever. I don’t want this night to end. What I want to do is lean toward him and demand that he kiss me again and never stop. What I want to do is leap into his arms. What I want to do is grab him by the hand and pull him to some far away place where we can sit together, forever and ever, and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss. What I want to do is scream, “I’m all yours!” at the top of my lungs. What I want to do is jump up and down. And on top of him.
But, of course, I don’t do any of those things.
“It’s after ten,” Dean says softly. “You’d better get going. We don’t want to start things off on the wrong foot with your dad.”
I don’t speak. I’m afraid I’ll say, “Screw my dad. Forget about my curfew. To hell with everything and everyone except you and me.” Since I know I shouldn’t say any of those things, I don’t say anything at all.
“Thanks for coming here tonight,” Dean says.
“Thanks for inviting me here,” I reply, finally able to muster a coherent sentence that doesn’t involve defying my father or hysterically professing my undying love to this beautiful boy. “Actually, thanks for wishing me here.”
He grins. “Yeah, that worked out pretty damned well, if I do say so myself.”
I nod in agreement. “Pretty damned well, indeed. Even though you cheated.”
Dean laughs. “I didn’t cheat.”
Reluctantly, I open my car door and settle into my seat. The scent of Dean’s leather jacket instantly fills my car. When I look back at Dean through my car window, he holds up his palm into a farewell wave and shoots me one last, ice-cap-melting smile.
Oh hell. I want to hurl my body out of my car and kiss him some more. I want to lean out my window and yell, “Get in!” and then haul ass across the Mexican border to some little fishing village where no one could ever find us, a place where we’d sit on the beach all day and night, laughing and writing songs together and eating rice and beans and handmade tortillas. And kissing.
But I don’t.
I want to slap my own face out of pure exhilaration.
But I don’t. Because only someone certifiable would do that, right?
Instead, I blow him a quick kiss, trying to make it seem like a casual “see ya later, whatevs” gesture, rather than the last sane act of a girl about to lose her mind to an all-consuming obsession. Then, even though it literally pains me to do it, I turn the key in my ignition and drive away.
Dad’s on his laptop at the kitchen table when I arrive home just before 10:30. When he sees me, he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s a school night, Shay.” His tone is stern.
“I’m sorry, Dad. It won’t happen again. I was having so much fun, I just lost track of time.”
When I say the word “fun,” I see the beginnings of a smile flicker across his mouth, but he stifles it. “Okay, honey, but it’s a school night. I can let things slide a bit on weekends, but not on school nights.”
“I know, Dad. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He looks surprised. “Say that again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No the other thing.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re right.”
“I was worried sick.”
“I
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