Chapter 181
Summer's POV
The bottle had barely stopped spinning when I felt my heart leap into my throat. It pointed directly at Kieran, who sat across from me in the circle, his dark eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly too warm.
"Well, well, well," Logan announced gleefully, his voice cutting through the sudden silence that had fallen over our little group. "Looks like the universe has spoken. Cross, you know the rules."
Around us, the other partygoers who'd gathered to watch the game leaned in with undisguised interest, their faces alight with anticipation and alcohol-fueled curiosity. Someone whistled low and suggestive, and I felt my cheeks flame with heat despite the vodka coursing through my system.
I started to stand, my legs slightly unsteady from the alcohol and adrenaline and the weight of everyone's attention, but Kieran was already moving.
He pushed himself up from his spot in the circle in one fluid motion, and I caught the exact moment the tension bled out of his shoulders—the rigid set of his jaw from moments ago softening into something lazier, more dangerous, his mouth curving into the faintest smirk of a man who'd just gotten exactly what he wanted. His movements were purposeful and unhurried despite the beer I knew he'd been drinking, and then he was crossing the space between us with that same predatory confidence he'd shown on the track earlier, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made everything else fade into background noise.
I froze completely, mesmerized by the sight of him approaching—by the way the black tank top clung to his chest and shoulders, showing off the lean muscle I'd felt during our earlier embrace on the dance floor, by the way his throat moved when he swallowed, by the slight flush on his cheeks and the way his lips were parted like he was already thinking about kissing me.
He stopped directly in front of me, so close I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and I could smell him—mint and the faint lingering scent of beer, mixed with something warmer, something that was purely him and made my head spin worse than any alcohol could.
Then his arms were around me, pulling me against him with a confidence that had been growing all night, ever since he'd first pulled me onto the dance floor and held me close while everyone watched, and I heard the whistles and catcalls from Logan and Mia and everyone else in the circle, heard someone shout "Get it, Cross!" in a tone of gleeful encouragement.
"She's shy," Kieran announced to the room, his voice carrying clearly despite its roughness, and I felt his hand slide up my back to cup the nape of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair in a gesture that felt both protective and possessive. "I'll kiss her instead."
"I'm not shy—" I started to protest, indignation making my voice sharp even as my heart raced, but the words died in my throat because his mouth was already on mine, cool and soft and tasting faintly of beer and mint.
The kiss started gentle, almost tentative despite his bold approach, his lips moving against mine with careful pressure that made my knees weak and my fingers clutch at his shoulders for balance. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest, could feel the slight tremor in his hands where they held me, and for a moment, it was sweet and innocent and perfect—the kind of kiss I'd dreamed about in my previous life but never experienced.
But then something shifted.
His hand tightened in my hair, tilting my head back at a better angle, and his tongue traced the seam of my lips in a silent request that I answered immediately, opening for him with a soft sound that was embarrassingly desperate. The kiss deepened, turned hungry and demanding, and I felt his other arm wrap around my waist and pull me so close there was no space left between our bodies, just heat and pressure and the overwhelming taste of him flooding my senses.
"You taste so sweet," he murmured against my lips, his voice rough and slightly slurred and filled with something that might have been wonder, like he couldn't quite believe this was real, that I was letting him kiss me like this in front of everyone. "Want to keep kissing you. Can I keep kissing you?"
I couldn't form words, could only nod against his mouth, and then he was kissing me again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against mine with a thoroughness that made my head spin and my legs turn to jelly. His hand cupped the back of my skull, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and the kiss turned possessive, claiming, like he wanted everyone watching to know exactly who I belonged to—not the way he'd staked his claim on the field this afternoon, all protective fury and territorial warnings, but something deeper, more intimate, a declaration written in the language of his mouth on mine that left no room for misinterpretation.
I forgot about the party. Forgot about the people watching and whistling and probably taking pictures. Forgot about the stupid bottle spinning game that had started this. Forgot about everything except the taste of him—mint and beer and something indefinably sweet—and the feeling of his hands on me and the desperate need for oxygen that I was completely ignoring because stopping meant not kissing him anymore and that was absolutely unacceptable.
His tongue explored my mouth with devastating precision, tracing my teeth, sliding against mine in a rhythm that made heat pool low in my stomach, and I heard myself make sounds I'd never made before—small, needy whimpers that should have embarrassed me but didn't because Kieran was making similar sounds, low groans that vibrated against my lips and made me want to climb him like a tree.
When we finally broke apart—and it felt like an eternity later, though it was probably only a minute or two—I was gasping for air, my entire body trembling, my lips swollen and tender from the intensity of what had just happened. I couldn't seem to make my legs work properly, couldn't seem to do anything except stay wrapped in his arms with my forehead pressed against his chest while I tried to remember how breathing worked.
My hand found his stomach without conscious thought, fingers pressing against the firm muscle beneath his tank top, and I felt him tense under my touch, heard his breath hitch in a way that made satisfaction curl warm in my chest. "You kissed too long," I whispered, my voice shaky and breathless and slightly accusing. "I can't—I don't have any strength left."