Our lips barely meet as I stand on my tiptoes to kiss him. I'm testing myself, determining whether the taste of his mouth is the same as I'd imagined. Part of me hopes it won't be, that I'll kiss him and realize this is all in my head: there is nothing between us. But his eyes darken, and he grows impatient. Before I can think, he grabs my waist, pushes me back against the basement door, and kisses me properly.

Game over.

Heat floods my thighs as I instinctively grab his shoulders, pulling him closer. In the same breath, he hikes up my thigh, the friction of his fingers sending tingles through my skin, and wraps it around his torso.

He's closer than ever, so close that I can feel every inch of him grazing my waist, but somehow, it's still not enough. I pull him toward me, slipping my hands beneath his t-shirt before running them down his back. God, his skin feels heavenly. Every muscle is strong, arched like wings as he towers over me, his hands entangled in my hair.

Blake's hands are in my hair. I should feel sick or horrified or even repulsed, but I don't. I'm kissing him like my life depends on it, like I'm running out of air, and he's carrying reserves.

Like I like him.

I can taste every insult on the tip of his tongue: princess, vain, vapid. Each word is like poison, laced with the taste of his red-cherry vape, and god help me, I can't get enough. As though he knows this, he gathers both my wrists in his hand, pinning them above me. The other trails my body, exploring parts of me I'd never imagined someone like Blake would have access to. When his hand nears the button on my jeans, I flinch.

He looks up briefly, eyes like burning coal. This is wrong, and we know it, but maybe that's the point. Blake isn't the guy I'd bring home to my parents or the guy I'd hold hands with in the halls. Blake is the guy who spends all night in his basement, smoking and questioning the government; he's the guy I want to kiss in the dark.

My mouth catches his again, lonely in its absence. "You taste like vape," I say between kisses, but god help me, I like it.

His breath comes hard in my ear. "You taste spoilt."

I can barely speak with the heat in my throat but manage, "What does spoilt taste like?"

"Sweet." He says it like it's a bad thing, but the way he pulls me closer suggests otherwise.

His kisses come harder, an urgency to them that matches mine. Any second now, this thing will implode; we're determined to make it count. My leg around his torso tightens, demanding he come closer. He sinks into the last sliver of space between us, running his hands through my hair. My brain does that thing where it demands I pull away, but I somehow end up closer. We're opposite poles of a magnet, drawn closer by some invisible force. I couldn't fight it if I wanted to.

The worst part is there's no alcohol to fall back on as an excuse this time. Nothing to use as a reason for why I draw closer. The truth is, Blake and I don't make sense in any capacity. We're too different, too stubborn. So why do I want this?

Him?

My breathing comes harder the longers this lasts. One way or another is no going back, but even if I could, I don't want to. This is the first time in my life that I'm doing something for me, not because it looks good on an application or to make my parents proud, but because it makes me feel happy.

Safe.

I can't stop touching him, which is something I never thought I'd think about Blake O'Hare, but it's true. Everywhere from his back to his arms is taut and smooth, and temptation proves too great. My hands are all over him, touching and pulling and forcing him closer, making him smile against my lips. It urges me on, because Blake smiling in or around my vicinity is such a rare instance I can't help but feel empowered by it. My fingers brush the bruise on his knuckles, and my heart pounds that little bit faster. He hit Chase for me. I don't know what it means for now, whether it means anything at all, but right now, I don't even care.

Blake's mouth leaves mine, and I let out a breath as his lips brush my jaw, trailing the length of my throat. I slip my hands beneath his t-shirt and run my hands along his back. Every muscle is strong, arched like wings as he leans over me, hands tangled in my hair. Breathless, I tilt my head back, the world a blurry haze of touching and tasting. Even with Chase, it wasn't like this. Our kisses were safe, the kind that made you wonder if passion is overhyped, but this – this is something else.

His thumb brushes the button again, popping it open. My breath hitches, and something explosive builds in my chest. He pulls back a little, watching my reaction as his fingers brush the outside of my underwear. Something about my expression makes his jaw clench. His eyes grow hooded, gaze on my lips like he's deliberating something. If I had any common sense, I'd have stopped this by now, but Blake makes me stupid. Totally, irrevocably, stupid.

Even so, I'm desperate for him to touch me. I study his face, the way his eyes burn back like he's seconds away from losing control. Like I've surprised him. And I realize that's what excites me the most: my whole life, I've strived to be perfect in every way possible, and Blake likes me better when I'm not. I like me better this way too.

Eyes shut, I lean my head back, focused on the gentle, teasing feel of his fingers. The old Rose pulls on the jail bars I've locked her behind and screams this will only end in trouble. Kissing my campaign captain in the run-up to elections is about the most stupid thing I can do, but I don't care. Right now, Blake could hold a match to my entire campaign, and I'd be ready to burn alongside it.

His breathing comes hard and heavy in my neck, as heavy as mine. When his fingers move from above the material and closer to the waistband, I gasp. We're seconds away from derailing this thing, and it feels like I have a heart attack. But as badly as I want to keep going, the old Rose breaks free. At this rate, on this trajectory, we'll take this past the point of no return, and I'm not quite ready for that.

My hands dart out before pressing his chest, and slowly, he pulls back. The basement feels colder now that his arms aren't around me, and I'm tempted to step back into them. But as if the smoke has settled, Blake runs a hand down his face and looks over, his gaze unsteady.

"I just broke every one of my morals," he says.

I'm still breathing heavily, unable to process that a few seconds ago, Blake's hands were gripping my thighs. My hands were running down his back. "As someone who partakes in illegal activities, I doubt you have many."

"Not kissing overachievers is top of my list."

I can't help but look at his lips, which are red and swollen from my kisses. Touching my own, I wonder if they're the same. The action draws his gaze to my mouth, where it lingers for what can only be seconds but feels like a lifetime.

Outside, the storm still batters the shutters and trees, but the rain has eased up a little. I swallow hard, acutely aware of the silence. Now that I'm no longer blinded by his kisses, reality sets in. What happens tomorrow? What if things become awkward and it interferes with my campaign? What if he's so horrified, so repulsed by his decision, that he quits? Blake doesn't need to hold a match to my campaign: I set this thing on fire myself.

"I should–" I start, but I don't finish the sentence. I grab my bag, my chest rising and falling with a thousand different emotions, none of which I can pinpoint. "I'll see you tomorrow. For the campaign, I mean."

Then, without looking back, I fling open the door and battle the weather to get to my car, where I stare at myself in the mirror. My lips are red and slightly swollen, just like his. And then it hits me exactly what happened: I kissed Blake. Blake kissed me. And despite the embarrassment settling in, the one thing I want more than anything right now is to do it all over again.

What is wrong with me?

❤️