Starting in the corner of my mouth, a gentle press of her mouth hits the small indentation. Pulls away.
Hums quietly, a delicate little hmm before moving in a second time.
Kisses the cleft in my chin she loves so much.
It tickles and I stifle a giggle—what am I, five? Jesus, Jackson, concentrate.
Charlie’s eyes are trained on my mouth—I can see them despite the light shining from behind her and into my eyes, blinding me. I might not be able to see anything but her silhouette, but I can still see the interest in her gaze.
The light suddenly flickers—goes out, the sound of the light bulb popping the only indication that someone didn’t shut it off from inside the house.
It’s dark. So dark, we stand waiting for our eyes to readjust, the only sounds our breathing and a car slowly passing by. I watch in my peripheral vision as it stops at the light, sitting far too long, its driver most likely texting.
Charlie’s hands cup my jaw, reminding me how good that felt when she did it earlier, only this time, it’s almost as if she’s memorizing the lines in my face now that she’s unable to see them.
I can finally see her better, better than I could with the porch light blinding me. The moon is full, and she’s alert, interested, beautiful. Intent on her goal, almost as if I’m not standing here with her, though I’m the focus of her mission.
I suck in a breath when her lips finally hover over my mouth. Actually suck in a goddamn breath, inhaling like someone laid their freezing hands on my stomach. Or shocked me with a Taser. Or…was about to kiss me full on the mouth.
God, I’m such a damn child. My stomach positively churns from nerves—I’m in my twenties, for fuck’s sake, not a freaking boy.
Charlie finally—finally—presses her mouth against mine. Firmly, our top and bottom lips meeting. Warm. Soft. Pouty. Full.
She stands there, unmoving, letting the simple kiss simmer, tattooing my mouth forever with the imprint of hers.
It burns. Singes.
Electrifies me.
Yet I don’t move, instead letting my hands hover at the sides of her waist, almost touching her but not quite, too afraid to go anywhere—a deer caught in headlights.
I’m never as passive as I am right now, normally decisive and full steam ahead. A decision maker. The receiver on the team and the guy running the ball. A leader.
Not this bullshit where I’m letting some silly girl push me against the wall on her porch, calling the shots and taking control. That’s usually my job.
It’s refreshing.
Charlie’s sweet mouth cracks open, and mine automatically does, too—just the barest of a fraction, our intentions the same: tongue.
They touch tentatively, mine hesitant, wanting and needing her to lead the way. Goddamn I wish I knew what I was doing.
Nature takes over, my tongue surprisingly meeting hers without fumbling; it’s all things honey and sugar and sexy and wet. Innocent, but not quite, as Charlie opens her mouth wider so I can move my tongue deeper.
When she sucks on it, my dick stiffens in a way I haven’t felt before—hard. Painful. Blood rushing from my goddamn brain to my cock. I wonder how I’ll walk straight to my truck when this is over.
My hand moves up her body, gripping the back of her head at the base of her neck, pulling her closer. Her hands leave my shoulders to grip the waistband of my jeans, fingers hooking through the belt loops and tugging.
Our pelvises don’t line up—I’m too tall for that—but they’re close enough to alleviate this throbbing between my legs as our lips and tongues clash.
A bump on the wall digs into my ass, but I couldn’t care less. All I care about is Charlie kissing me. The little moans coming from her throat. The fact that we’re alone, the only two people who matter right now.
What team? What coaches? What career?
Nothing matters.
There is no one but Charlie Edmonds.
A Wednesday
Jackson
I couldn’t sleep for shit last night.
I can’t eat at breakfast.
I can’t do anything but let my mind drift.
It’s the first time I’ve been this distracted in my entire life, at least that I can recall.
My ass has been lodged on the same weight bench for the past ten minutes, except I haven’t lifted a single barbell or weight.
One name plays itself on a loop in my mind: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.
Shit, what happens if I sleep with her? What will that do to my football career? I have no fucking idea, and I’m not sure I’m brave enough to find out. My entire life I’ve been told by Pops and my coaches that girls are nothing but a distraction—career killers.
The wrong girl can make or break you, the way my pops blames Mama for him not playing college ball, although I can’t imagine getting some girl knocked up doing that much damage. You do what you have to fucking do and hustle harder.