Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

“Thank you! Oh god, thank you so much.”

* * *

It’s dark by the time Connor and I make it back to my house. We walked back on the trail together silently, using the flashlights on our phones to light the way, the only sound between us was the deafening chirp of crickets.

I flick on the hall light after we walk through the door, leaving the rest of the house shrouded in black shadow. I lay my keys on the table, beside my forgotten water bottle. It’s only been a little over an hour that we’ve been gone—but it feels longer. Further away, somehow.

And that’s when I notice my hand is shaking.

And I’m not the only one who does.

“Violet?” He’s beside me, his voice steady and deep. “Hey . . . you okay?”

Connor takes my hands and presses them between his palms, rubbing his warmth into them.

“Your hands are freezing. And you’re trembling.”

“No, I’m fine. Really.” I shake my head. “It’s just—”

“Yeah, I know.”

It’s the aftermath. The buildup of stress and adrenaline. We block it out, lock it down, shut it up, but once a crisis has passed, it has to come out somehow.

“Come here.”

And I’m pressed against Connor’s chest, his arms around me, holding me, surrounding me in his scent and warmth. I let myself sink into him, pushing my face against his sternum.

“Your shirt is damp. Do you want me to—”

“The shirt’s fine, Vi. I’m fine.” His hand strokes up and down my spine. “Everything is okay.”

He speaks in lulling, calming tones—because he gets it. And it’s so nice to be understood, without needing to say a word. The thrum of his heart beats beneath my cheek, and that’s comforting too.

“What if we weren’t there?” I ask in a small voice.

“We were.”

“She’s just a little girl. It’s would’ve been so awful if—”

“I know.” I feel the press of his mouth against the top of my head, the warmth of his breath in my hair. “It’s all right, Violet.”

“What if we didn’t save her?”

It’s normal for fears to follow even after things turn out good. What if I screwed up? What if I forgot what I was supposed to do? What if I forget the next time?

It’s a part of the process, part of dealing and carrying on. Because there’s always a next time—and you don’t know when it’s coming or what it will be—but it could be worse. Harder.

And you could fail, you could let down the people who need you when they need you the most.

“We did save her.” Connor squeezes me tighter. “She was laughing with EMS when they pulled away. She’s going to be fine—kids bounce back really well—you know that.”

I nod, letting his words flow through me, calming me.

“You did so good, Violet. We did good together. We make a really good team.”

I smile against him. “Yeah, we do.”

Then I raise my head, looking up. Connor smiles gently down at me.

But then his expression stills, and something shifts in his eyes before they drop down to my mouth. My heart speeds up and my breaths quicken as Connor brings his fingers to my chin, his thumb stroking, tilting my face up to his.

And then he lowers his head and presses his lips to mine.

His mouth is so warm and soft. The pressure of his lips a coaxing, seducing weight that makes me reach up on my toes to press back against him, feel more of him. My arms slide around his neck and his arms wrap around my lower back. Connor angles his head, changing direction—sparking a simmering heat that builds in my pelvis, when the tip of his tongue slides slowly across my lower lip. I open for him, gliding my tongue into his hot mouth at the same time that his slips into mine. The wet, stroking caress is so erotic I moan, and Connor’s fingers grasp at me, digging into my skin needily. He slants his mouth over mine again and again, our noses brushing until I encase his upper lip, sucking gently.

Then he dips his knees and lowers me to my feet, leaning back but keeping his hands splayed across my hips. We breathe deeply, staring in shock at each other for a long moment, waiting for one of us to say something.

But neither of us do.

When I remember it later, I’ll never quite be able to work out in my mind how it happened—who moved first. But I think we move together.

Because in the next second our mouths crash together, tongues clashing, and he’s crushing me against him—chest to chest, stomach to stomach, hips grinding heated and hard. Our hands tear at each other, touching and tugging at too many annoying clothes—like we want to crawl beneath each other’s skin.

It’s wild and rough, crazed and desperate.

We kiss like the world will end if we stop.