He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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6:28 PM
I don't know what I expected from kissing my best friend. Maybe something soft and sweet, something with a few laughs between the lips, a little brush of tongues, a hand here, and a hand there.
Greyson's kiss is nothing like that.
It's a rough clash of rain and tears—Mine? His? He kisses me heatedly, mouth open, tongue twining, hand sliding under my back to pull me flush to him.
I'm lost, but I try to kiss him back, my eyes squeezed shut as I open my mouth, and touch his shoulders just a little. I try to feel what he told me about—that love.
Hotter, faster, deeper. I brush my hands down over his damp shirt. I feel his heart raging under my palms, and his breath hot and ragged against my mouth. I feel the reality of him, my best friend, the person I trust most in this world. He's here, so I hold him to me. I trace his muscles, the places with scars I know so well, each one a tiny story I was there for, that I heard about.
Everything—I know everything about him.
Are we inevitable? Is he my everything too? I can't feel the answers.
Greyson's hand grazes my throat like a warm, rough necklace. "Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
"I'm trying," I gasp out between his kisses.
He takes my hand, slips it under his shirt. His muscles are tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I've never dared to touch before.
Then there's a tear on my cheek, burning the path it travels. A few more flow, and soon, our first kiss tastes like grief. His body presses down into mine, matching every curve and angle. It's his grief. His tears.
"I love you," he promises.
Thunder cracks crazy close, a roar that splits the sky overhead. I flinch, tearing us apart.
I don't even get a chance to think or recoup before Grey takes my arm.
"Let's get back," he says, hauling me upright as I grapple for my camera—grapple for everything I feel like I dropped to the ground.
Grey starts trekking, tugging me along. But I don't want to go back. His dad's going to be home. I don't want to go back to that, don't want Grey back in that.
Still, we rush through the thickening mud, our feet slipping as we make our way back to the trail end that leads to his house. It's only half a mile or so. The storm seems to be chasing us, the wind howling like a wild thing behind our backs.
As we push through the underbrush, the reality of what just happened starts to sink in. My feelings are a tangled mess—part of me is drawn to Greyson, my best friend, the boy I've known all my life. Have I always been drawn to him? I can't tell. Maybe I've stolen glances, thought about things, wondered—but never aloud. But I can't tell.
