Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

So that’s what a french kiss feels like.

I’d always wondered about it, imagined it, dreamt about kissing the boy that I would fall in love with someday. But nothing had prepared me for the real thing.

He was pure sex.

At first, I had been nervous. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I was as surprised as he was when I made the first move to touch him. But the way he’d looked at me, the way his sharp blue eyes watched me… He was irresistible. He made me feel craved.

As if he hungered for me.

There was no hesitation in him—just pure confidence. He knew what he wanted, knew how to get it, knew he’d show it to me. And he had.

The way his lips had eagerly taken from me, the way his tongue had played inside my mouth, the way his fingers had stroked and squeezed. The way he’d moaned.

He’d enjoyed it. Or at least he’d looked like he had.

So I didn’t feel sorry or embarrassed for what I’d done because he made me feel his presence, that he was there with me. He made me feel like I was the only girl in the world. The urge to touch him had been unstoppable. I couldn’t have stopped myself even if I’d wanted to.

Until he tried to unzip your pants, that is.

Was that all he wanted from me?

What else could he possibly want from you?

I was scared he wanted something more from me, and I was scared that he didn’t.

Something was stopping me from thinking there was more than that. My heart couldn’t afford to think there was more than that.

Impossible.

Because…what came next after that? I’d have to give up something. There was always something valuable taken away in exchange.

And I wasn’t ready to change my life. I wasn’t ready to give up anything.

And I was scared that this man would make me want to.

A heaviness was forming in my chest. It wasn’t disappointment, I realized. It was…sadness. And resignation.

* * *

I usually enjoy and pay more attention during Sunday mass, but trying to get enough sleep, especially this week, was about as easy as finding Nemo.

Not that I was complaining. I had set out down this road by my own choice, and even though my mind and body were screaming at me to slow down, it would be a sin for me to stop now. I was so close to saving enough money to buy off my uncle’s share of the shop.

By the time the first reading was over, I was falling asleep on my feet. Dylan was beside me, and he would elbow my side or pull the hairs on my arm to wake me up, but nothing worked. The hymns they were singing felt like lullabies to my sleep-deprived body.

“Kar!”

I jolted and slapped Dylan’s cheek for waking me up. By the time I realized where I was, I noticed people were moving. Was mass over?

Dylan drilled his finger into my forehead. “It’s time for communion, dummy,” he whispered, trying to suppress his laugh.

My dad was sitting in front of us and, like a normal dad trying to keep his little kids from misbehaving, glared at us to be quiet. I winked at him and he sighed.

My dad was a devout Catholic. Rain or shine, he took us to church every Sunday. When we were little kids who had too much energy, we’d run around the church like little shits. Until my dad learned to bribe us with McDonald’s if we behaved.

People from the front pews were lining up in the middle and sides of the church to receive the hostia. I figured I had another thirty seconds to close my eyes before it was our turn. But just as I was closing my eyes, I froze.

There was a tall guy sitting four pews to my left in front of us. His hair was black and curly, his shoulders wide, and his back looked very, very familiar.