A Slice of Love Page 2

  Frankie is kissing me.

  Frankie is fucking kissing me.

  Although everything inside me is screaming for more, I don’t dare move, too worried I’ll scare her away and this will end just as fast as it began—and that’s the last thing I want.

  She brushes her lips against mine again. And again.

  I’m dying, just fucking dying under her slow, gentle assault.

  Then, all too soon, she pulls away.

  I exhale a heavy, almost relieved breath, because if she had left her lips against mine for just one more second…

  “Jonas.” She says my name again, the single word uttered with a force of need. I don’t think she even realizes how she sounds right now, how scratchy and hoarse her voice is coming out.

  I peel my eyes open, looking down at her, trying hard to mask the lust in them.

  She’s peering up at me with a heavy gaze that’s asking if she can do it again.

  Again? Try always.

  I bend until we’re eye level so I can hold her brown eyes with my green ones.

  Reaching out, I slide my hand up her cheek and into her red frizz, rubbing the strands between my fingers like I’ve always wanted to do. They feel like silk between the pads of my fingertips. I don’t ever want to let them go.

  She leans into my touch, enjoying it just as much as I am.

  With the fingers of my free hand, I trace her thick bottom lip, wanting so badly to feel it against mine again. Her exhalations ghost along the tips, and I can feel the way her breaths have picked up yet again.

  Chest heaving, she’s gazing at me expectedly. Like she’s waiting for me to capture her lips with mine.

  And I want to. So damn badly.

  But I can’t take it. It has to be her decision.

  I decided that the day I agreed to her crazy idea of us spending the weekend together.

  If Frankie asks me to kiss her, I will. But I won’t take what isn’t mine.

  She has to offer.

  “I’ll only kiss you if you ask me to, Frank.”

  Slice Two

  Frankie

  I blink up at him.

  I’ll only kiss you if you ask me to, Frank.

  God, do I want him to.

  No, not want—need.

  I need Jonas Schwartz to kiss me.

  To press his lips against mine. To make my world shift.

  Because that’s what will happen the moment he kisses me. I know with every fiber of my being I will never, ever be the same again.

  Which sounds incredibly stupid since we’ve hardly ever spoken to one another. It’s not for lack of wanting to. We simply can’t.

  Jonas is…well, Jonas. He’s the quarterback of our championship-winning football team. He’s Mister Popular with all the typical things that come along with it—girls, parties, and mischief. He has that it factor, and he uses it to his advantage plenty. He’s untouchable.

  I’m untouchable in other ways. My father is the town pastor, and my mother the principal. I’m Miss Perfect…but not in a good way. Everyone avoids me like the plague. We live in a small community; rumors already run rampant. Getting involved with the daughter of two of the most influential people in town? Not going to happen. Fear keeps everyone away.

  Somehow, though, we found a way to break through our social statuses this year. Turns out we don’t need spoken words to get to know each other.

  No. Our secrets are bled into the pages of a cheap notebook, making them lasting…binding.

  Ours.

  Nobody else. Just us.

  Which is why I need Jonas to kiss me.

  Now.

  I’ve been waiting to feel his mouth on me for months.

  “Will you kiss m—?”

  The last word isn’t even out of my mouth before his lips are covering mine. His hot, hard mouth is pressing firm against my own. I don’t know anything about kisses because this is my first, but I’d dare to say he’s kissing me like he’s hungry and will never be satisfied again.

  His touch is soft yet hard, primal but restrained.

  He wants more.

  I want more.

  Like he can read my thoughts, he pulls away.

  He rests his forehead against mine, his harsh breaths making his chest pump up and down in rapid succession.

  “Frank, this weekend…” He swallows hard. “This isn’t what this is about. I’m just here for the project, to hang out with you without everyone staring at us like we don’t belong together. I’m not here for anything else. I’m not trying to pressure you into anything. I just—”

  “Jonas?” I interrupt.

  Another swallow. “Yeah?”

  “Just kiss me again. If anything is too much, I’ll tell you. I just want you to kiss me like you’ve always wanted to kiss me.”

  He lets out a sound that’s between a laugh and a groan. “No, Frank, you really don’t.”

  “I do. I can make my own decisions. Don’t treat me like I’m so fragile.”

  “But you are. You are fragile, and the last thing I’d ever want to do is break you.”

  “You won’t, Jonas. I promise. So just kiss me.”

  Another groan, only this one sounds more like a growl.

  Without another argument, he hauls me against him, his hands running over my curves and down, down, down until they slide under my butt and he lifts me. On instinct—because it’s surely not based on experience—I wrap my legs around his waist.

  I’m not stupid, and I’ve read plenty of romance novels I’m definitely not supposed to read. I know what I’m feeling between my legs is proof Jonas is loving the feel of his lips on mine just as much as I am.

  Just like somehow, deep down, even though I didn’t plan it, I knew this weekend wasn’t just him coming over to work on our chemistry project.

  It was more.

  I knew it when I asked him. Knew it when he said yes. Knew it when his knuckles rapped against the door and when I stood on the other side almost wishing he’d leave and we wouldn’t fall into this trap we so carefully placed for ourselves.

  I knew it when I asked him to come in.

  And I wanted it all along.

  I wanted this.

  To touch Jonas. To feel him.

  To kiss him.

  Suddenly we’re moving, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s headed straight for the living room.

  I pull my mouth from his, looking around. Yep, that’s exactly where he’s striding off to.

  “How do you know where you’re going?”

  “Instinct.”

  I eye him and he laughs.

  “Okay, fine—I snooped when I went out to my car.” He grins at me as we stop in front of the couch. “I was curious and you’re a horrible host. You didn’t even give me a tour or show me your room.”

  I don’t know why, but my eyes widen at your room leaving his lips.

  My room? Jonas in my room…?

  The thought thrills and scares me all at once. No boy has ever been in my room. Heck, I think I can count on one hand the number of times my father has been in my room.

  It’s my place. My sanctuary. The one place I can go and not feel pressured by my parents or anyone else. It’s all mine. Sharing it with someone else, even Jonas, intimidates me.

  As if he can feel my fear, he sets me down on my feet but doesn’t move away. I’m still practically plastered against him. With one hand on my hip, he cups my cheek with the other, brushing his thumb back and forth in both spots. I can’t decide which gentle touch I like more.

  “Hey, I was teasing. Like I said, I’m not here for anything, Frank.”

  I nod. “I know.”

  “If you want to stop this now and finish our project and send me on my way, I’m cool with that.”

  “Why do you keep trying to get me to make you leave?”

  He grimaces. “Because I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”

  “I asked you to.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “But I knew bette
r.”

  I don’t tell him I knew better too.

  “I’m just trying to give you an out here, Frank. Because of your pace.”

  “My pace?”

  His grip tightens on my waist, squeezing me twice. “Yes.”

  My pace?

  My pace is fast and frazzled. It’s unskilled and desperate.

  Because this weekend? It’s all we have until college.

  Sure, I’ll see him at school every day, but despite us sitting next to each other, miles are separating us there, never mind the entire summer we’ll be apart.

  College is months away.

  I can’t wait months.

  I’ve touched Jonas. Tasted him. I can’t just let this be it until then.

  I have to have more.

  Right now.

  Refusing to think about it, I move.

  He follows.

  We’ve swapped positions, and when I reach out and give him a gentle shove, he falls to the couch.

  This time it’s me who follows.

  Placing a hand on his broad shoulder, I swing a leg over his lap and settle myself until I’m straddling him.

  Jonas doesn’t hesitate to touch me this time.

  His hands go right for my hips again, like he can’t not hold on to me.

  “What are you doing, Frank?”

  “Going at my own pace.”

  He stares into my eyes, looking for any sign of uncertainty.

  He’s not going to find it.

  This is what I want.

  Him. All of him.

  When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he concedes. His fingers begin to move against me, digging into the curves of my hips. His thumb sweeps against my bare skin, and I love how rough it feels. I love more that I know it’s from him working in his dad’s auto shop because that’s the kind of guy Jonas is—the kind to help his family out whenever he can.

  His fingers slip higher under my shirt and I know he hears the way my breathing starts to pick up. It’s suddenly hot in here, so darn hot, and I’m burning up.

  I shrug my cardigan off without thought, and not until Jonas gasps do I understand why what I’ve done is such a big deal.

  Grinning up at him, I say, “They’re just shoulders, Jonas.”

  “But I’ve never seen them before.” He reaches out, tracing a finger over the skin that’s exposed.

  I felt daring when I dressed for today and put on something I hardly ever wear—a spaghetti-strapped shirt.

  “This feels very reminiscent of the old days when women weren’t allowed to show their ankles for fear of turning a man on.”

  He bites his bottom lip, tipping his head back with a groan. “God, I bet your ankles are so fucking sexy.”

  “I like it when you do that.”

  “What?” He grins, his eyes dancing with a mixture of amusement and desire. “Fantasize about your ankles?”

  “No.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I like it when you say…that word.”

  He frowns. “You shouldn’t, Frank.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re good. Good girls don’t cuss, and they definitely don’t like boys who do.”

  Good girl—I hate that it’s who I’ve become because of who my parents are, because of their influence. It’s frustrating because I am not them.

  I’m me.

  And Jonas knows me.

  Which means right now, with him, I don’t have to hide. I don’t have to worry about his judgments.

  Dragging my hand up from his shoulder, my fingers crash through his thick hair, pulling on the strands just like he pulled on mine. I’ve wanted to touch him for months, and now I can.

  Using him as leverage, I drag myself closer to him, relishing the feel of him between my legs. There’s a tiny voice inside my head screaming at me that I shouldn’t find this pleasurable, but I shut it out quickly.

  I do find this pleasurable.

  Very much so, in fact.

  So much that I move again.

  “Christ, Frank.” He slams his eyes shut, hissing at the contact, and his hands fall back to my hips, holding me tightly like he wants to pull me closer but keep me at bay all at once.

  I lean into him, letting my lips hover just above his, so close I can feel our mouths brushing against one another with each heavy breath we take.

  “Well, I guess I’m no good girl then, because I definitely like boys who cuss.”

  “Fuck,” he mutters, and I laugh, because I don’t think he did it on purpose; it’s just a natural reaction for him.

  “What does that make me now, Jonas?”

  “Good. Still good.”

  “Would a good girl invite you up to her room?”

  His eyes snap open, and the first thing I notice is the burning fire churning in his verdant green gaze.

  “Are you sure?”

  I bob my head up and down. “I’m sure.”

  He doesn’t waste another second. Holding on to me tightly, he pushes us off the couch and races up the stairs.

  “Which room?”

  “Why are you running? I didn’t say we’re having sex.”

  His eyes widen.

  “Well, at least not right now.”

  His steps falter and we nearly go tumbling to the floor. He catches himself on the wall, glaring down at me. With a grin, I shimmy down his body, dropping back onto my feet but still holding on to his big shoulders.

  He still has one hand on the wall, the other on my waist—which seems to be a favorite spot of his—and his hard eyes are burning into me. “You absolutely cannot just say things like that, Frank.”

  “Which part? That we’re having sex? Or that we’re not having it right now?”

  “Fucking hell.” He slaps his palm against the wall. “You’re killing me here.”

  “You’ll live.” I pat his cheek. “I’m only teasing you. We’re not having sex…right now.” I wink, and he groans. “Come on, it’s at the end.”

  I lead him down the hall with false bravado in each step.

  I’m nervous to have a boy in my room, especially when that boy is him.

  And especially when he makes me feel the way I do.

  Seen.

  We step into my sacred place, and I hold my breath as Jonas lets his eyes wander around the small, mostly white room.

  I watch as he takes in the twin-sized bed covered in a neat, light pink bedding set. There’s a white dresser that matches my bed and a bookshelf that’s in desperate need of rearranging, the books spilling over the shelf’s capacity.

  But he quickly skips over all of that.

  His look lingers on the art adorning the walls. I know he’s aware they’re my drawings. I’ve doodled in our notebook enough for him to know my style. One time, without thinking, I drew him. Though we have a rule about not ripping pages out, that one mysteriously went missing.

  He steps farther into the room, walking toward the one wall where my drawings hang. Some are finished, and some are works in progress because something is missing I just can’t put my finger on. He studies each one with careful eyes.

  Slowly, he shifts his stare to me, almost like he doesn’t want to look away from the pictures. When his eyes find mine, the adoration that’s shining so clearly makes my stomach do flips.

  “It’s a real damn shame you’re not doing anything with your art, Frank. Your talent astounds me.”

  “I’m not that great.” I look to my pieces and point toward one of the things that bothers me the most about my hobby. “My shading needs work. My eyes could use more practice too. And my—”

  The sudden feeling of Jonas’ fingers on my face cuts my words off.

  He pulls my attention to him.

  “Just take the compliment, Frank.”

  I nod, because there’s something about the way he says it that I can’t argue with. “Thank you.”

  “I love your art. I love the way you put a little bit of yourself into each piece you create.”

  “You don
’t know that. You haven’t seen a lot of my art.”

  “I’ve seen enough to know. Besides, you’re you—of course you leave a part of yourself inside each drawing. I’m just sorry your parents don’t acknowledge this side of you.” His thumb tracks over my chin and his eyes fall to my parted lips. “It’s probably one of my favorites.”

  My breath picks up, and I briefly wonder if I’ll always feel like the air is being ripped from my lungs when he’s around.

  “Another.”

  He brings his eyes back to mine, and his brows scrunch together in question.

  “Tell me another favorite thing.”

  “Your shoulders.”

  “They’re just shoulders.” I roll my eyes at him.

  He grins, stepping closer. “Your ankles.”

  “You’ve never even seen my ankles,” I argue as he slides his arm around my waist and drags me into him.

  “I don’t need to. I bet they’re super hot.”

  “You are s-so—”

  My words falter when he grazes my neck with his nose, running it up the length, breathing me in.

  “So what?”

  “A-Annoying,” I finish, clutching his shoulders as my knees begin to shake.

  “Huh. You’re not acting like I’m annoying.”

  “You are. Trust me.”

  “Duly noted. Oranges.”

  “Apples.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I thought we were just naming random fruits.” I smirk.

  He shakes his head then places a soft kiss on my jaw. Then another just a few centimeters above the last. “You always smell like oranges. That’s one of my favorite things too.”

  “I love orange juice.”

  “I know, Frank.” Another kiss. “I see you with it every morning.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  He chuckles, and I can feel it right down to my toes. “Your shyness.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, it’s cute. Just like your hair.” He tugs on the ends of the wild strands, something he keeps doing—something I’m starting to love, which is weird because I hate my crazy hair. “Just like your glasses too.”

  “I want contacts so bad.”

  He kisses me again. And again. His lips are getting dangerously close to my lips now. “Just like your eyes. They’re cute too. I’ve never seen brown eyes so full of—”