21 Stolen Kisses Page 12

  But one night after a party, we were too risky. The usual suspects had already come and gone, and Noah was the last one there. The three of us relaxed in the living room.

  “It’s been so long since you’ve been at one of my dinner parties,” my mom cooed to me. That was yet another clue she failed to pick up on— the fact that I had suddenly become interested in her parties again. I was only interested because of Noah.

  “Mom, you’ve always known how to throw a good party,” I said.

  She yawned deeply, then said she needed to retire for the night.

  “I’ll clean up,” I said.

  “I’ll help,” Noah chimed in.

  “What would I do without the two of you?” She kissed Noah on both cheeks and said good night, and did the same for me. She disappeared to her chambers, and at the sound of her door snapping shut, we both grinned.

  “Dishes?” I asked suggestively.

  “Let’s get into some hot water,” he teased back. We scooped up the plates and wineglasses from the coffee table and the dining room, collected cloth napkins, and gathered all the serving dishes. We loaded the dishwasher, and I loved how he lined the dishes up properly, in the right slots, just where they should go. He was neat like me. I turned on the sink to wash the rest of the dishes. Noah started to unbutton the cuffs of his purple shirt, a deep rich eggplant color, and I stopped him.

  “Let me do it.” The lights were low in the kitchen; the house was doing its own impression of dusky twilight.

  He held his wrists out to me, and I took my time, unbuttoning the right cuff carefully, folding it up once, then another time. The chance to be near him, even like this, was such a heady thrill. “I love your shirts,” I said, breathless. “Have I ever told you that?”

  He shook his head, pressed his lips together as if he were holding back all he wanted to say. I started to unbutton the left cuff, slowly freeing the metal button from its holder as I continued my ode. “I love all your shirts. The blue and the purple and the green and the orange and the pink and the raspberry. I love them all. I love how they fit you, and how colorful they are, and how they’re just so you. I always used to think about what shirt you might be wearing before you came over. And I would run through all your shirts in my mind, because I’ve catalogued them all.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, holding on to the counter for just a second, his fingers cutting into the marble. “You have no idea how much …” he said, then stopped himself. He was careful with me; always careful to never say too much.

  I leaned into his neck, dusting my lips against his throat, listening for the little sigh to escape his lips. His fingers found their way into my hair, and soon he was kissing my neck, leaving a trail of hot, needy kisses along my throat.

  “Noah,” I murmured, arching my back, inviting more kisses, more touching, more him.

  “I love the way you say my name,” he whispered back, his voice growing more urgent as he speared his fingers into my hair. The water in the sink kept running.

  “Noah,” I said again, then again, then again. His kisses increased in urgency, his strong body aligning deliciously with me. We fit together so well with clothes on, pushing, pressing, grinding. We had the necessary barrier; we always did. But yet, with the firm press of his body so snug against mine, I melted. I burned. I seared. My mind knew I wasn’t ready, but my body craved more.

  “I could use another glass of wine.”

  We ripped ourselves away from each other and plunged our hands under the faucet, like it had been scripted, like it had been planned. Neither one of us had expected my mom to reemerge. My heart was exploding in my ears, and I felt like someone had grabbed my stomach from the inside and twisted it, round and round. I didn’t even look at him. I didn’t even chance it. The floor was tilting, my face was scalding, I’d been caught and she was going to make it hurt. She padded her way into the kitchen, and a rabid fear ricocheted through me.

  But she simply refilled her wineglass, gave me a kiss on the top of my head, and waltzed back to her room.

  When her door clicked shut, I finally managed to look at Noah.

  His eyes were wild with worry.

  He didn’t say a word, just exhaled. We finished the dishes in silence, and when I turned off the water I whispered, “That was close.”

  “I know.” His voice was heavy, the consequences palpable in the stony look on his face.

  “I don’t want her to find out, Noah,” I said, like a prayer, like a plaintive plea even though he was on my side.

  “Trust me, I don’t either.”

  The noises started then. The awful sounds of her seducing someone, probably Jay, on the phone. I cringed and walked Noah to the door. I was embarrassed; I didn’t want him to hear her getting randy on the phone with a man. As I opened the door I stepped outside on our front porch, shutting the door behind me.

  “I hate her boyfriends,” I blurted out.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. All of them. I hate that she talks to them on the phone and has them over and is loud and disgusting with them,” I said, the words spilling out in a mess from my lips before I could even take them back. It was the first time I’d verbalized to anyone how my mom’s habits made me feel. Disgusting. Enraged. Ashamed. There was no Caroline yet in my life; Noah was the only one I’d ever breathed a word to. He was my safety net. An angry tear slid down my cheek.

  Instantly, he pulled me into a gentle hug, his arms circling me, spreading warmth and comfort all through my bloodstream. “I’m so sorry, K. I’m sorry it’s been like that for you.”

  “I wish she’d stop, Noah,” I said, whispering into his chest.

  He nodded against me as he stroked my hair. “I know what you mean. I feel so bad that it makes you feel this way.”

  His soft touch, his complete understanding emboldened me. “I hate lying for her and covering for her and I hate that I know all these things she’s done,” I said, admitting more, letting go of the secrets I’d held dear.

  “It was like that with my mom too,” he said, keeping me close as he shared more of himself. “With her drinking, that is. It’s so hard. I wish I could tell you something wise and insightful and all, but it’s just hard. And I know how you feel.”

  I felt safe there with him, unburdened for a moment.

  We untangled ourselves and it was time to say good-bye. “Here,” he said, reaching into his pants pocket for his phone. “Take my music,” he said, and mimed tapping. “Listen to Les Miz when you walk back into the house. It’ll shield your ears and you’ll have no choice but to think of me.”

  I grinned, knowing what he meant, as I reached for my phone. He tapped mine with his, and modern technology sent his playlist to my phone.

  “I’d think of you anyway. All night long,” I said, as I scrolled through the screen for his current show tunes playlist.

  He placed his fingers under my chin so I was looking at him. “Come over tomorrow. You can see all my shirts.”

  The next day I counted down the seconds until he left the office and texted me that he was on his way home. I was at my dad’s house that night, so I told him I was going out with some friends from school. I’d never been to Noah’s apartment before. He lived in a doorman building off Madison Avenue in the Fifties. The doors had brass trim and a green awning. The doorman had been given my name, so I simply told the mustached man in the suit that I was seeing Noah Hayes in 6E, and the man gestured to the elevators at the other end of the small lobby. Sparks rose inside me as I pressed the button and waited for the door to slide open. I stepped inside a tiny elevator; one side was mirrored top to bottom. I took in every detail of his place; it was as if I’d gained admission to a secret hideout, the treehouse at the top of the street that I’d only seen from a distance before.

  A man’s home. My man’s home. Such a rush, such a thrill.

  Giddy with excitement, I nearly skipped out the doors when the elevator opened on the sixth floor, then I walked down the carpeted ha
llway and knocked on the last door on the left, waiting for him to answer, feeling like I was on a sugar high already.

  He opened the door, lips curled up in a smile that said we have a secret. He swept out his arm, letting me inside, watching me as I drank it all in—the dark-oak hardwood floors, the pewter coffee table laden with his gadgets, phones, tablets, then the tiny sliver of a kitchen with its white counters, a steel fridge, and the obligatory espresso machine that he told me he never used, since he preferred to grab a cup from the deli on the corner. A sleek television screen hung on the living room wall; I did a brain sweep to erase the image of him watching Lords and Ladies on that screen on Sunday nights. In my world, there was no Lords and Ladies. In my interpretation of Noah’s apartment, he only watched sports on the big screen. Across from the TV was a dark-gray couch, then an end table with a few framed photos. I checked out the pictures; one of his mom, one of him in a graduation cap and gown, and one of Noah and his mom when he was my age.

  “You in high school?” I asked, holding up one of the frames.

  “Yep. Back in the day.”

  “You were handsome,” I remarked with a sly smile.

  He wrapped an arm around my waist. “Were?” he asked then nibbled on my earlobe, and I shivered against him. “Were, Kennedy?” he asked again, this time in a firmer voice, demanding an answer.

  “Were. And are,” I said as I turned around to face him, tracing his jawline with my fingertips, watching his breath hitch. He tugged me closer, held me tighter, made me feel wanted, then erased all thoughts in my brain with a deep, hungry kiss that made me weak in the knees.

  Noah

  I took her by the hand and led her to my bedroom. My fingers gripped hers more tightly, as if that would keep me from throwing her down on the bed and touching her in all the ways I wanted to. Restraint was my watchword, and that’s why I held her hand tight. The tension was my reminder to keep everything on the level, a task made even harder as she trailed a finger across the edge of the navy comforter. I groaned, a rumble working its way up my chest just from the sight of her touching my bed.

  I shook my head. “You in my bedroom is dangerous,” I said, and I was grateful to open the closet door seconds later. My work clothes hung, pressed and draped. She let go of my hand, glancing back at me with a naughty look in her eyes. Like I’d just escorted her into her fantasy realm. Maybe shirts truly were her weakness. I watched her every move as she reached out to touch them. It was insanely arousing the way her fingers traced buttons and cuffs and collars as she felt them all. The blue ones, the green ones, the pink ones, the purple ones, the white ones.

  She was mesmerized, and so was I. It was like witnessing her being turned on by an idea.

  Without asking, without saying a word, she reached for a cobalt-blue shirt, took it from its hanger, and slipped it on over her black shirt.

  “How do I look?” she asked, both sweet and seductive, as she buttoned herself up in my clothes. My clothes. The girl I wanted, the girl I’d tried to resist, then stopped resisting, was wearing my shirt, standing in my closet, mere feet from my bed. My breath fled my chest. She was so gorgeous and so damn edible. I was getting a medal for restraint because my hands itched to strip and explore every inch of her. But my brain and my heart kept me in control. I wouldn’t do something she wasn’t ready for.

  “So unbelievably hot,” I said with an appreciative groan.

  She turned her neck to smell the collar and the front of the shirt. “Smells good.”

  I shut my eyes briefly and clenched my fists, needing to keep my desire in check. When I opened my eyes again, I watched her every move as she unbuttoned the shirt, hung it back up, and then removed a lemon-yellow one from its hanger, trying that on and modeling it. Next, a navy shirt. Then a white one. She was stunning in everything, and I had to dig my heels into the ground to stay in place, to keep from wrapping her up in my arms and kissing her in ways that would lead to lines we weren’t ready to cross.

  All it would take would be one move, one touch. I’d carry her to my bed, strip off all her clothes and kiss her everywhere.

  “You look good in all my clothes, K,” I said, my voice gravelly, as I teetered, so close to the edge of breaking the rules.

  She pressed her face into my shirts, pulling them near to her. My chest tightened with longing. My hunger for her threatened to rule the day, to break free of the chains I kept it in. Because I wanted her. God, how I wanted all of her.

  “I love them all,” she murmured.

  “I love the way you look in every single one of them,” I said. And the way I imagine you look out of them too.

  “Do you want to wear this one now?” She gestured to the cobalt-blue shirt she’d tried on first. “It smells like me.”

  Kill me now.

  Like there was any way I’d say no. The smell of her was intoxicating, and I wanted to inhale her delicious scent all night long. “Yes.”

  She handed me the blue shirt. I wore slacks and a white T-shirt, so I slid my arms into the sleeves, my eyes on her the whole time. I didn’t break the hold either; we were hooked on each other, no words would have told her more clearly that I had no interest in anything but her. I held out the cuffs, and she took my cue, stepping closer, her hands reaching for my wrist. Even that simple touch made my blood race. I stayed still, not moving an inch, as she buttoned each cuff.

  A barely audible groan escaped my lips.

  As she moved to the middle of the shirt, pulling the two sides together, I drew a sharp breath. My brain was flooded with images of what might happen next, like a relentless film reel flashing in front of my eyes of all this restraint snapping, and the two of us tumbling together, hands tearing at shirts, fingers tugging them off, clothes in a wild heap on the floor.

  She started midway up the shirt, dressing me, each button like a slow, sensual dance. Every press of her finger torched my blood. She moved lower, sliding each button through its hole, then adjusting the collar, her fingertips brushing against my neck.

  I could barely take it anymore.

  “K,” I whispered, both an invitation, and a warning. Don’t come any closer. If you do, I won’t be able to hold back.

  She must have sensed the danger, and knew it was up to her to keep us in check.

  She stood on tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss on my lips. I grabbed her shoulders, pulled her in close, kissed her harder, needing more of her. Taking a taste of her mouth, her lips, her tongue. It wasn’t enough, but it had to be enough for now.

  Then I let go, and exhaled sharply. “I had to do that,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said with a wild grin. “You did.”

  She stepped back, giving me space to tuck the shirt into the waistband of my pants. As I looked at her face, I didn’t see a seventeen-year-old. I saw a woman who wanted a man. Age was irrelevant. We were the same. We were instinct, we were desire, we were waiting.

  “Perfect,” she whispered. “You look perfect.”

  We went to a nearby restaurant. I was chancing it, having dinner with her. But I also wasn’t. We’d eaten out together before. Hell, we’d gone to Yankee Stadium together. We’d gone to shows together. We appeared as friends to the world.

  Dinner was not completely absurd.

  “I almost forgot. I have something for you,” I said after we ordered. I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a slim pink jewelry box with a clear glass rectangular cutout in the middle. My heart skidded as I catalogued her reaction—excitement, anticipation, wonder. Exactly what I wanted her to feel. She clicked open the box and reached for the silvery chain with three small stylized charms—a bicycle, a skateboard, and a lacrosse stick. The tiny wheels on the skateboard, the netting in the lacrosse stick, and the spokes on the tiny bike were pink—kitschy, cool, shiny, baubly, perfect pink.

  She pulled the necklace from its home and held it up to her chest. “I love it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” she said, fingering the smooth si
lver of the miniature skateboard. “Where did you get it?”

  “I had it made for you,” I said, hoping she’d like it, wanting desperately for her to know she was special to me. “I wanted to give you something. But I didn’t want to just get you anything any guy could get you. I wanted it to be just for you.”

  “It is perfect. It’s perfect for me.”

  “You don’t have to wear it now. Really. I’m just glad you like it.”

  “I want to wear it now,” she said, insisting as she fiddled with the opening of the chain. “I want to wear it every day.”

  Those words—every day—were like a sweet song just for me. My bones hummed with happiness to hear her say them. I longed for an every day with her.

  “Let me do it,” I said, gently taking the necklace out of her hands and unfastening the clasp. “Come closer.”

  She pulled her chair closer and our knees grazed each other. That tiny contact was like a lightning bolt of want slamming through me, but I tamped it down, always keeping things in check, as I reached my hands around her neck, fastening the necklace, letting it fall against her chest. The restaurant narrowed to only us; all the other patrons, the waiters, the hostess, the cooks were a blur of noise. She was my world. I let my hands linger for a moment, barely tracing her soft skin with my fingertips. She held my gaze the whole time, then touched her new necklace.

  “I love it, Noah,” she said, her eyes open and wide, never leaving mine. “I just love it.”

  “I love it too,” I whispered, and I knew, and she knew, that we weren’t just talking about the necklace.

  After dinner, we walked a few blocks over to Madison Square Park, framed on one side by the Flatiron Building, on the other corner by the MetLife Tower. We sat on a bench at the edge of the park, soaking in the warm air and the dark sky, as we watched the other New Yorkers walking by.