Nothing More (Landon Gibson 1)

DoI bring it up again, or wait and see which way she takes the conversation?

I take a sip out of my own glass and decide to wait it out. I shouldn’t trust myself to keep my mouth from saying something stupid. I’ve never been the best at knowing what to say or when to say it. I’m not that cool guy who can lean against the counter and be all I was just thinking about us getting back together and running off into the sunset and living happily ever after, yo.

Ugh, even my self-mocking fantasy is lame.

I don’t know how to keep eye contact when I’m nervous about her answer. I simply just suck at being that guy.

Surely, this is one of those things that I can blame on my father. I’ve been patiently waiting for one of these moments when I could cash in my “crappy dad” coupons and blame him for dying too early to be able to teach me how to be a man. But even as the thought passes through my mind, I know it’s irrational and not true. My lack of assertiveness wasn’t his fault, and still isn’t, but I want someone to blame other than myself.

If I’d had a man to talk me through my teenage years, to explain how to talk to women, I would know what to say. It must be his fault that I overthink everything.

“Landon,” Dakota says in a soft breath like she’s coming to some sort of resolve. And I’m just standing here, disappointed in myself and stuck in playing the blame game.

“Dakota,” I say back to her, and she turns her cheek. I gently push her hair down, caressing the thick curls with my fingers. I’ve spent hours, probably days, of my life touching these strands, calming this girl. Her hair has always been one of my favorite things about her. Her fingers grip at the back of my shirt, and I can practically hear the starchy fabric crunch. Never again will I iron my shirts under Tessa’s watchful eye. She went a little overboard on the starch spray that day.

Dakota holds me tighter and I dip my head down to kiss the top of her head.

She sighs, melting into my chest, her voice soft as she says, “I made a huge scene.”

I keep one hand on the counter to hold us up and wrap the other around her back.

“Oh God, this is so embarrassing. Of course you and Nora aren’t dating.”

My arm tenses. Something about the way she says this sits weird with me. Is she assuming that since I’m hugging her in my kitchen, I couldn’t be dating Nora, because I just wouldn’t do that kind of thing? Or that the idea of nerdy me dating someone like Nora is impossible and ridiculous?

Either way, I remind myself that I shouldn’t care. I’m not dating Nora and I’m pretty sure that she has absolutely no desire to actually date me. She eats guys like me for breakfast. I need to stop thinking about her. I already have.

Dakota lifts her cheek from my chest just long enough to speak.

“I feel like shit,” she says.

“Because you drank too much or because you made a scene?”

“Ugh,” she groans against my chest. “Both?”

I pat my hand against her back. I can tell she’s exhausted. Her hands are on my back, at the waist of my jeans. She reaches up, untucking my shirt. Her hands are a little cold against my back. The ache of familiarity as her fingertips move in circles over my skin mixes with the coconut smell of her hair, and suddenly I’m a man obsessed.

I’ve been here before, immersed in her scent, her touch. I feel her fingers press into the small of my back and I mold myself to her body. I’m ever so accustomed to this. To her. It’s only natural that I fall back into this routine. Once she touches me, I see only her.

“Let’s go to your room,” she says just as her lips touch mine. She keeps them there, barely skimming mine. “No one is here, right?”

Tessa’s gone. Check.

For a second I feel a pang of guilt about Tessa being gone because I left her somewhere. But when Dakota kisses me again, deeper, all guilt disappears in a wave of desire.

At last, we don’t have to sneak around like we did when we were kids. I’ve never been able to actually fuck this love of mine in the privacy of an empty house. All of our encounters have been hushed kisses and subdued moans, rushed hands and sloppy tongues. I’ve never been able to slowly devour her body in the way I dream of. I want to run my tongue down every inch of her caramel skin and spend extra time where she needs it the most. I want to taste all of her, hear every sound of hers.