“But then—then there are certain words. Potent words. The ones that carry weight. Like cusses. Do you swear because those are your common words, words that no one would blink if you used them in normal discourse? Or do you swear because you know those words get attention? That out of all the words at your disposal, those express ultimate meaning, ultimate feeling. Those words get noticed above all else, because well…” She gestures to me. “They pack a punch.”
I swallow, mouth dry. “So you don’t swear, at all?”
“I wouldn’t say at all. I just don’t use those words lightly. Because when I do use them, I want what I’m saying to mean something. Something unexpected, but something strong.”
“Ultimate feeling.”
She nods. “Ultimate feeling.”
I turn away from her, run a hand over my jaw. Because when she talks like that—about words, of all things—a light flush heats her cheeks, making her eyes shine and the corners of her lips tilt in just the sweetest way and—
“Remind me never to play Scrabble with you, princess.”
That smile blooms, smug and triumphant and playful and so goddamn picture fucking perfect. She crosses her arms. “I would kick your ass in Scrabble, Armstrong.”
Fuck.
What would it take, I wonder. What singular event or action would drive her to say other ones. Those words that she doesn’t take lightly. The ones that I use frequently—because she’s right. They pack a punch. And I am well known for punching.
I want to hear them. All those words. Straight from her lips. I want to say something mean, something to provoke her into calling me an asshole, so I can discipline her with a chastising kiss. Her lips aren’t nearly dark enough. Not like they’d been the other night, after crushing them to mine. Pink and bruised and panting and moaning. I want to kiss her until she begs for my cock in her pussy. To make her scream words like shit and damn and fuck fuck fuck as I bring her to climax again, with me inside her this time.
And just when I decide to do it, to say something, anything—she speaks first.
“Why aren’t you partaking in the festivities, anyway? Couldn’t find a girl you hadn’t slept with yet?”
Couldn’t find one I almost slept with.
“No, there are plenty of those here tonight,” I say, with a careful eye on her.
Kennedy doesn’t react. Doesn’t get jealous. Doesn’t demand explanations. Her tone had been friendly, almost teasing.
“Actually, I just wanted to make sure that you’re…”—What? Still thinking about the other night?—“…okay.”
“Oh? Oh.” She glances down, cheeks growing redder. “Yeah. Good. Mostly good. Still a bit itchy.”
“Good,” I nod.
Silence settles, neither of us certain what to say next in this truce between us. I stuff my hands back in my pockets. Deep enough that my fingers touch the edge of the thin paper box. Before I can stall, second guess, I pull the object out and toss it at her.
Kennedy catches it. “What—Oh. Oh.”
It seems to be all she can say. And I can’t help but remember the way she’d breathed that simple sound with my hands on her. Oh my god, Spencer!
Her blush stretches to her neck when she reads the label. Condoms. Latex-free.
I’d dropped her off Thursday night, then walked home in the cold. My hands damn near froze, scrolling through my phone. Researching. Finding stores nearby that stocked the brand.
The store clerk tonight, when I’d taken Hart’s SUV to load up on booze for the party, had given me an odd look at my purchases. Beer. Condoms. And…
I pull the next item out of my pocket.
When she catches it, her mouth drops open. Then, those lips form a smile that reaches into shining hazel depths. Voice an excited, gasping pitch, she asks, “Where did you find these?”
I scuff one heel on the top of my boot. “The store.”
I shrug, like it’s obvious. It’s not. Because it took three fucking trips to three fucking different stores in town.
Non-elastic hair bands are a bitch to find.
She throws the condoms in a desk drawer. Tears open the package of hair ties. “I looked online, but couldn’t find any that specifically assured they were one-hundred percent free of elastic. My hair’s flying all over the place, it’s been driving me absolutely nutty—” She pauses, almost reaching for a tie. Then, she smooths down her hair—every strand in place, no matter what she says—and holds the pack out to me. “I don’t want any more surprises. Can you help me do a skin test?”
I grab one of the ties and throw the rest of the package on the desk. Kennedy rolls up a sleeve and holds her forearm out to me. “Just rub it on the inside of my arm, right, like that.”
I hold her arm steady with my other hand, her skin soft under my fingers. Without thinking, I draw a thumb over the spot I’d grazed the band over. “How long does this take?”
“However long it takes to break out in hives.”
Her voice is low, whispering. She’d stepped close to give me her arm. Now, she angles her head toward mine.
“Spencer?”
And I think there’s something there, something in those eyes and lips. Unspoken words. Ones with the power to draw me closer to her, to ask if she feels this undercurrent, this beating, living sensation that began the other night. This thing she started—because she always fucking starts it—between us…
The one that’s nowhere close to being finished.
I open my mouth, her name on my tongue.
“Kennedy!”
The word I’d chosen to beckon her to me. But not in my voice. A distant call, one that propels her to step away from me.
Fucking. Natalie.
“Well, that’s my cue,” Kennedy says. She rolls her sleeve down. Takes a deep breath, and I wonder if she’s counting along with that inhale. Bracing
