“You,” he says, moving a foot between mine, bringing him so close I can feel the warmth of his chest through our wet shirts, causing my arms to feel colder in contrast.

I keep my chin level so that my lips are just low enough he will either have to bend or manipulate my back or neck to kiss me. I kind of hope he chooses the latter. I want to feel his hands on me, knowing how powerful and gentle they can be. My hips slide forward, manipulated by only his presence, willing to comply with anything, or possibly begging traitorously.

“Lo.” My name is a whisper. A plea. An entire dedication to my heart that steals my breath and any lasting hesitation.

My chin falls back as one of his hands wraps into my loose hair and his other wraps around my back, pulling me closer to him. His lips are softer than I remember, but the comparison vanishes nearly as quickly as it came when his tongue parts my lips and then slides purposefully against my lower lip, coaxing, encouraging, taking. I press up on my toes and tighten my grip around his neck, drawing me closer to him, deepening the kiss because I want him to take everything from me.

His warm, earthy scent sweetened by soap and something that is singularly him fills my lungs, bringing me higher, losing every sense of the rain and any concern that was planning a strike in my head.

His rough chin scratches mine as he bends to shift and lower me to the ground, which is surprisingly warm and soft for being the front yard. The warmth from his palms seeps into my skin like a dye, absorbing and stretching until I feel him touching me nearly everywhere. Everywhere except where I want to feel him. My groan of impatience makes King chuckle as his nose skims across mine. I don’t care that he’s laughing at my eagerness; it doesn’t dampen my lust and need for him in the slightest. Reaching between us, I fist my shirt and pull it off, shocking both of us when I reveal I’m not wearing a bra.

King’s hand runs over my belly, following the path where my ribs meet so that the curve of my breasts feel the barest of pressure, causing a new objection of patience to quickly be cried as my back arches.

I feel the weight of him against me everywhere, yet it’s worse than having him not touching me at all, because I am so desperate to feel his skin, his power, and the relief my body is seeking, that I feel like another person. I want to immerse myself in this moment and get completely and utterly lost. I have not experienced a desire like this apart from when I first met King and we spent the entire evening lost first in conversation and later in sensations and emotions.

Twisting below him to bring him more firmly against me, I nearly whimper when the pressure of his body eases, becoming lighter and lighter until my body burns with exposure.

My eyelids slam open, meeting the darkness of my apartment. Over the thudding of my heart, I take in the silence, the emptiness around me, and am grateful Kenzie didn’t bring a guest over as I reach for the shirt I had peeled off mid-dream.

“I hate you,” I mumble, shifting to my side, flipping the weight of my blankets back over me, and nestling deeper into my bed.

THE WALK to the Knight residence seems longer today. I have no idea what I’m going to say, or how I should act around King. Ignoring him seems not only rude but impossible when he lives in the house. However, when I arrive, the driveway is void of all vehicles, and the garage and shop are both closed. I wander through the house, paying close attention as I go to ensure I’m alone before I take a seat at the kitchen table and pull out an art history book. The creative part of art comes fairly naturally to me—the book part of school does not. This year, my advisor informed me that not only was I a history credit behind, but also a math credit. These quiet times at the house before Mercedes gets home from her carpool have become a saving grace for me to allot time to the subjects.

I close my book, knowing Mercedes should be home at any second, and hear the door open and Mercedes releasing an indecipherable growl. “Hey,” I call. “How was your day?”

I barely register her words as I enter the foyer, waiting to see why the door is still open behind her.

“… and Justin Davison puked all over the cafeteria at lunch. It. Was. Disgusting.”

When nothing follows her but a gust of wind, I turn to Mercedes and grin. “I hope you don’t get sick too. I have a rule about puking.”

“What kind of rule?”

“My stomach doesn’t like you to go through it alone.”

“Gross!” she cries, dropping her shoulders with defeat.

I raise my eyebrows and nod. “I don’t enjoy it either. Close the door and let’s get homework done so we can play.”

IT’S TWO days later that I finally see him, and I hate that it makes my pulse quicken and every one of my senses is heightened. He doesn’t pay attention to me. Not a smile, not a word, not even a glance. Nothing. I decide it’s better this way. It will be easier to forget that night and him if we both pretend the other doesn’t exist. My brother, Josh, and I practiced this game for most of our lives—I’m proficient at pretending.

“ANYTHING GOOD in there?” I poke my head out of the fridge where I’m making room for the instant pudding Mercedes eventually gave in to making with me after pleading for us to make a dessert. She thought my cooking skills were lacking—she was mortified to learn my complete lack of ability to bake. Parker is behind me, his baseball hat flipped backward over his messy hair, with a scruffy jaw that clearly hasn’t seen a razor in several days.

“Hey, Parker.”

“How have you been? I haven’t seen you much lately.”

“Yeah, I was visiting my family over the weekend,” I explain.

“In Montana?”

I nod a few times and hear the fan of the fridge kick on. He is too close for me to move out of the way without brushing against him though, so I remain standing in front of the open door.

“How did it go?”

“It was … home.” The word is so self-explanatory for me.

“Maybe I’ll make the trip out there with you next time to see if they grow all Montana girls like you.” His index finger is curled as it brushes down my cheek in a movement that’s too fast to be sensual but too intimate to be a joke.

“Did King make this?” he asks, his eyes moving to something over my shoulder.

“Sorry?” I ask, taking a small step back and feeling the coolness of a shelf press against the back of my arms.

“Do you know if King made this?” His arm reaches forward, crowding me closer to the fridge. He pulls a plastic Tupperware from a shelf with a quiet scrape.

“I don’t know…”

Parker lifts his gaze to mine, and a slow smile curves his lips into an easy smile. “It must not be. If King had made it, it would be gone. His cooking is better than sex.”

“You have no idea what good sex is like if you believe that.” King appears behind Parker, and his attention locks on me. It’s unnerving, making me question what thoughts are occurring behind his brown eyes that are narrowed ever so slightly, making his dark eyelashes appear even thicker.

“But you’re right, I am a good cook.” King takes the leftovers from Parker’s hand and pulls down a couple of plates from the cupboard.

“What is that shit? It looks good,” Parker says, taking a step closer to King and allowing me to finally move.

Being anywhere near King still makes me feel uneasy, even with us ignoring each other. Just being in the house when I know he’s here makes my shoulders tight, my ears strain, and my focus constantly stray. The effects seem to magnify with him being so close.