The rush of heat to my thighs is instant. He suddenly lifts me, carrying me through the basement and setting me on the countertop. My hands are quick to snake around his neck. Like before, our kisses are laced with a hint of self-loathing, but the masochist in me craves it.

It's a little less terrifying this time around but somehow more thrilling. His teeth catch my lip, and I let out a moan that seems to drive him crazy. He grabs my hips, fingers settling into the dips, and pulls me toward him. My breath catches; I can feel every inch of him, the front of his sweatpants hard and taut as he presses against me. I'm not exactly Mother Theresa – Chase and I fooled around plenty of times – but nothing like this.

Blake's tongue teases mine in a battle of dominance. I'd always assumed he'd taste bitter like poison, but he always tastes minty and sweet. I lean forward a little, giving him the perfect view down my shirt, and his breath roughens.

"Are you contagious?" I manage.

"Is this your idea of flirting?"

"No, you're sick." My words come out muffled as I press my mouth to the side of his neck. God, it's so smooth. Warm. "How contagious are we talking? My debate is on Tuesday." As good as it feels to kiss him again, I'm not about to risk the campaign.

"I'm not sick." He pulls back a little, dragging his gaze to my lips. "Not physically, anyway."

"Then why haven't you been at school? Why did you miss my campaign meeting?"

His jaw clenches. He looks to the ceiling like he's on the verge of a breakdown. "Your timing is one of a kind, you know that?" I'm still holding his waist, on the verge of slipping my hands beneath his t-shirt and running them up his chest. "I had to make some money on short notice."

"Are you–"

He uses his mouth to silence me. I forget what I'm saying as his hand slowly slips beneath my shirt. The brush of his fingertips over my stomach makes me shudder. I kiss him harder, my thighs pulsating as I briefly imagine what it would feel like to take this thing further – further than I've ever gone with anyone.

His mouth drops to my throat as I shiver. That roaming hand beneath my shirt now brushes my bra, pinching me through the material. It takes all I have not to melt on the spot because melting means having to stop what we're doing, and I don't want to do that. I pull him in closer, my breathing hot and heavy in his ear, which seems to make him harder.

I keep thinking about how we got here, but it's impossible to remember. All I can think about is how much I'd miss this if things suddenly stopped. And yet, in the back of my mind, those whispers of doubt creep back in. How many girls has he kissed? How many has he slept with? I'm certain my kisses don't compare to his numbers, and sex is something I've yet to experience, but I'm certain he has; what if I pale in comparison?

The gentle motion of his thumb on my bra throws those doubts out of existence. I lose myself to the feel of his touch, kissing and touching and tasting. It feels like hours pass, but neither of us shows any signs of giving up. Blake uses his hand to push away my knee, further spreading my legs. I swallow hard, able to tell from the look in his eyes what's playing on his mind; the same thing is playing on mine.

He pops the button of my jeans, eyes on mine as he waits for permission. I'm so caught up in the heat of the moment that I find myself nodding. As someone used to planning things out, it's hard to admit how much I can't think straight, can't focus on anything but the feel of Blake's hands as they dip into my jeans. I reach for his t-shirt, about to rip it off, when voices sound from behind the basement door.

We both jump back as the door swings open and in walk his friends. I have just enough time before Freddie looks over to zip up my jeans. "Oh," Freddie says before grinning. "What do we have here?"

My heart pounds. While I might be okay with kissing Blake O'Hare in the depths of his basement, having people know is an entirely different story. "I came to tell Blake about our debate plans," I say, moving to my bag and pulling out my campaign book. I flick to the pages I'd written at lunch and pray to god they believe me.

Liv sits down first, glancing at the notes. Freddie and Kenny sink onto the sofa beside her as Blake leans on the counter he'd nearly violated me on. "We're going to head to the bridge tonight," she says. "You guys wanna come?"

"The bridge?" I ask. The only bridge in Archbury is the pedestrian one used for crossing the river, but there's not exactly anything to do there.

"We hang out there sometimes," she says. "Grab some beer, sit on the bridge, contemplate existence."

"Change of scenery, you know?" Freddie says. "Sometimes Blake's dusty ass basement doesn't quite hit the spot. Plus, no one ever uses it, so we can smoke there."

I glance at Blake, who has not moved or said anything. It's hard to tell whether his contracted jaw is because he's disgusted with himself for kissing me again or annoyed that we'd been interrupted. My pride likes to think it's the latter.

"Nah," Blake says, pushing himself off the counter, "you guys go."

My throat burns. Does that mean he wants to spend more time with me? Or is he hoping I'll end up leaving too? As usual, his cool as a cucumber expression gives nothing away.

"Boring," Kenny says to Blake, and the three of them get up and head to the door.

"See you later, Rose," Liv says. "Message us if you need us to do anything before the debate."

"I will," I say, smiling. "Thanks."

Blake doesn't say anything, but as soon as they leave, he sinks onto the sofa, picks up his joint, and rolls it back and forth between his hands. There's always this shame that follows kissing him. This feeling that I've done something terrible, and I know that as soon as he looks at me, he feels it too; the worst part is that I like it.

I sit beside him, nervous. Something about this felt different from the last time, more intense. I'd terrified myself with how far I'd been willing to go in the moment, farther than rational Rose would have wanted, which means I can't trust myself around Blake.

It's a scary thought – scary enough that the idea of us sitting here alone makes me anxious. I steady my breathing and try to think of something to say to make us feel like us. "Do you want to see my cupcakes?"

He looks over. Pauses. I don't miss the suggestive arch of his brow as his gaze drops to my cleavage. "Is that a euphemism for something?"

"You wish." I get up and head to my car before returning seconds later with my cupcakes. After placing the tin on the table, I sit back proudly and watch as Blake leans forward.

He lifts the lid, tilting his head as he studies the cupcakes. "Vote for ose."

Frowning, I peer over his shoulder to see I've missed the R on three of the cupcakes. "I was a little distracted when making them."

His eyebrow arches. "With what?"

"Nothing," I say a little too quickly. Don't think about kissing him. Don't think about kissing him. "Shall I fill you in on our debate tactics?" I don't wait for an answer. I go to grab my campaign book at the same time he does. In the split second it happens, I think he's reaching for my thighs and jump.

Blake pulls away like I've burned him. "Relax, Matthews. I can control myself."

"So you're not a complete neanderthal then."

He can't help it, he grins, and a part of me wishes that he wouldn't. It's too damn hard to resist. "Sorry to disappoint."

I ignore the titillating mental image of him pinning me to the wall and organize my things on the table. When I've finished, we spend the next thirty minutes reviewing and editing the notes I'd made for my debate. Blake listens for once, turning the joint in his hands but never smoking it. He seems to do that a lot around me.

"We have a pretty good basis for the debate," I say when we've finished. "I think my experience in student council will give me the edge – people want a president with at least some experience – but it's not a guarantee, which means this debate is pivotal. No doubt Libby and Chase will find a way to tear down every argument I make, which I guess is the point of a debate, but they'll probably take it one step further and tear me down personally. We have to be ready for that."

"What's my role?" Blake asks. "Am I debating with you?"

"You sit on the panel," I say, "all of the campaign captains do, and you can help with notes or guide me toward arguments, but only I can speak."

He nods and puts the joint on the table before looking over. "You hungry?"

"Yeah," I say, "I am."

We head upstairs to the kitchen to make a snack. Blake opens the fridge and closes it again when it's apparent there's nothing inside. After rummaging through the cupboards, he pulls out some pasta and a jar of sauce. "How's Italian?"

I want to tell him pasta and a jar of store-bought sauce cannot exactly be considered Italian, but I smile. "Italian is fine."

It feels strange being in this part of the house. I'm so used to us always being in his basement that up here doesn't feel like him; it feels like I'm somewhere unfamiliar. I sit on the countertop and watch as he boils the water.

For the next few minutes, he chops up some onions and other ingredients to add to the sauce. I like watching him, I realize. It's out of the ordinary to see him in the kitchen cooking – normal, in fact – and it makes me feel like we're normal too.

"Have you been watering the roses?" I ask.

Blake puts down the seasoning and gives me that look. "What is it with you and roses?"

I shrug, about to brush it off as nothing, but I realize I don't want to. Maybe the truth will make me sound silly or childish, but it's the truth, and for reasons I haven't yet admitted to myself, I want to share it with Blake. "The day I was born, my dad planted a rose bush. We spent years looking after it together, like a special project we kept between us. I guess I became attached to it–" I take a deep breath, "–what it signified."

He leaves the water to look at me properly, eyebrows furrowed. "What did it signify?"

"Love, I guess. Perfection. During spring break, it caught Rose Rosette. My mom cut the whole thing down without telling me. It sounds stupid to care so much about a rosebush, but it kind of hurt."

His voice is low and soft when he speaks. "It's not stupid."

I look away briefly before looking back. Even though I know he hates sharing, I can't stop asking, "Do you have anything sentimental like that?"

I don't expect an answer, but he holds out his arms and lets me drag my gaze down his tattoos. "I'm wearing them."

This shouldn't surprise me, but it does. I'd figured his tattoos were personal, but I'd never considered them sentimental, especially when Blake doesn't strike me as the sentimental type. "Can you tell me what some of the others mean?"

He turns to the water, adding the pasta like he didn't hear me. When he next looks over, I give him what I hope is a seductive look, pulling my lip between my teeth. "Don't look at me like that," he warns.

"Like what?" I ask innocently. I do it again, and his jaw contracts.

"Like that." He leaves the pot and slips into the space between my thighs. My heart throbs, but as he lowers his head to kiss me, I pull back a little to look at him.

"One tattoo for one kiss," I say.

"You're manipulating me for information?"

"Yes."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "All right."

Excitement pools inside of me. I slowly reach out and brush a thumb across his pocket watch tattoo before remembering what he'd said. Not that one. Instead, I move on to one of the others, a tattoo I've always been curious about given his temperament: Virgin Mary. "This one. I didn't peg you for the religious type."

"I'm not," he says, staring at my lips, "but I tried. I figured that had to account for something."

"Why?"

It takes a long time for him to speak. "My mom died when I was a kid. Needed to believe in something."

I lean forward a little. It almost feels wrong to kiss him after hearing something like that, but when my lips brush his, I realize this feels different from earlier. Meaningful. I pull back again, wondering if it's safe to ask any more questions, but he's looking at me like he wants me to. Deep down, I know it's not just for the kiss.

Still looking at him, I brush my thumb across the Cancer sign. "What about this one?"

"Cancer," he says, looking away. "Not exactly subtle. It's what she died from."

I swallow and run my finger along the thick, black curves of the symbol. Leaning closer, I don't kiss his mouth this time. I lower my lips to the side of his neck, right where his vein pulsates. He snakes a hand around my head and holds me to him. I don't ask any more questions – I don't want to push my luck – but I'm glad for the ones I did ask. Something seems to shift between us, closing some of the distance.

His mouth finds mine when the water bubbles over. For a moment, he doesn't move. Neither do I – my hands are wrapped in his hair, my body rejoicing at the feel of his lips. He pulls back a little, just enough to look me in the eye.

"I was wrong," he says, his voice low. "I can't."

I swallow hard. "Can't what?"

"Control myself."

That makes two of us.

❤️