Storm (Elemental 1)

Her hands wanted to find his chest, to slide beneath his tee shirt and see if his skin felt as warm as she did. These kisses were addictive, simple promises of more with each press of his lips. And she found freedom here, in his restraint. She didn’t have to struggle to find her own boundaries.

He pulled away, but not far, kissing along her jaw. “Better?”

She nodded, pressing her forehead into his neck. He smelled good, like woods and shaving cream and lemonade.

She lifted her head and smiled. “But I think there’s still room for improvement.”

This time when her lips parted, he responded, sliding his hands to her waist to pull her close. Her body softened into his, her br**sts pressed against his chest as his fingers teased at the tiny edge of skin revealed by her tank top. His tongue brushed hers, quick, then slower, drawing a low sound from her throat.

Her hands pulled at his tee shirt, her fingers finding the smooth stretch of skin across his stomach, the muscles that defined his waist.

“Easy, Becca,” he whispered against her lips.

She froze.

“Easy,” he said again. He kissed her cheek, her mouth, her eyes. “There’s plenty of time.”

He kept her so off balance. “For what?”

“For you to trust me.” He caught her hands, kissed her fingertips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Then he drew back on the couch and pulled her up against him.

And did nothing more than stroke her hair until she fell asleep.

inned, and she loved how it stole the tension from his features. But then he was pulling her to him, shifting until they were in the corner of the sofa and her face was against his shoulder. His arm fell around her waist, holding her close. She had no idea where her free hand should go—there were so many wrong places—and finally settled on resting it across his chest, until his heart beat under her palm.

Becca held her breath, afraid to move.

“You okay?” His voice was closer. His breath touched her forehead.

She nodded.

He reached up and pulled the sticks out of her hair, and she felt the semi-damp strands drop onto her neck. “I don’t want to put an eye out,” he said.

She giggled. “Sorry.”

He said nothing for the longest time, and she relaxed into the feel of his body, allowing the rhythm of his breathing to settle her own.

She’d forgotten what this felt like, to rest against a boy, to share the weight on her shoulders with someone else.

“Do you have a curfew?” she asked.

“Not really.” He paused. “Mom’s not ... she’s been kind of distracted since Dad died. She might not even know I’m gone.”

His voice wasn’t empty, but carried a note that warned her to tread carefully. “What about your grandparents?”

“I don’t think they remember that teenagers are supposed to have a curfew.” Another pause, and she heard a smile in his voice. “Why? Want to go out?”

She shook her head, glad he couldn’t see the blush on her cheeks. His hand came up to rest over her own, his thumb sliding along her wrist until he found the twine bracelets. He slid them until the knots were aligned.

“Why don’t you believe in accidents?” she said.

Hunter was silent for so long that she thought he might not have heard the question—or he might not want to answer. But he ducked his head and spoke low, as if the words were too much for the living room to hear.

“My father and uncle used to go on these ... trips,” he said. “I always thought it was adventure-type stuff. Male bonding, sleep in the woods and skip shaving, you know.”

She could imagine. Her dad would probably love it. “Was your dad a cop, too?”