The Kissing Game (14 page)

“But that's not the part that really bothers me,” she said. “What bothers me is the fact that now all my memories are tainted.”

“Tainted.”

She glanced up at him, but there wasn't any amusement in his eyes. Only puzzlement. He was truly trying to follow her, trying to understand.

“I had a first kiss that was like something from a romance novel.” She smiled sadly, remembering. “It was an incredible night—one of those warm spring nights on the key, where the air smells like tropical flowers and the stars look close enough to reach out and touch. A breeze was coming in off the Gulf, but it was from the south, and it was warm. We were on the beach, in the moonlight, with the sound of the surf …. “ She shook her head. “It was …. right out of a movie. We were walking and Jazz took my hand and I was nervous as hell.” Nearly as nervous as she was sitting there with Simon's leg pressed comfortably against hers, with his eyes glued to her face, listening to her story as intently as if she were telling him the secret to eternal life. “We'd been on the beach hanging with the same crowd of kids all day, and I'd flirted with him most of that time, but finally we were alone. He stopped walking, and he just looked at me, and I was so sure I could see all the way into his soul just from looking in his eyes. And then he kissed me. It was perfect.”

She risked another glance in Simon's direction. “But Jazz was probably as insincere then as he is now. That kiss was just a fake.”

“You don't know that for sure.”

“Yeah, but now I'll always wonder,” she said. “I know this sounds stupid, but I feel really ripped off. See, it's not as if I can go back and do it over again. I mean, you get only one shot at something like a first kiss, and I blew mine by kissing a jerk.”

Simon was silent, and when Frankie looked at him again, she caught another glimpse of that unsettling vulnerability in his eyes. “Maybe you're wrong. Maybe Jazz
wasn't
the first boy you kissed.”

“I think I probably would remember—”

“You were twelve,” Simon said. “You wrote about it in your diary.”

“What?” She glanced up at him, frowning. “Who …. ?”

“You kissed
me,
Francine.”

The look in his eyes hadn't changed, and Frankie felt hypnotized. She couldn't look away. Her pulse kicked into double time and she felt light-headed. “That was just make-believe.”

“You wrote about it as if it were real.”

“I wish it had been,” Frankie whispered. At least then she'd know he'd meant it. If nothing else, Simon was sincere in his affairs. He lived for
the moment, and for that moment he meant and felt what he said.

For the first time in what had seemed like an eternity, Simon smiled. “Really?” He didn't wait for an answer. He stood up, taking the towel and ice away from her hand and dumping them into the sink. “Maybe it
was
real and we just don't remember. Or …. or maybe it was
supposed
to be real, and we got sidetracked. Maybe that kiss with Jazz Chester was just practice. Maybe Charlie and everyone else you've ever kissed, maybe that was all just practice for the real thing.”

The real thing? As Frankie stared at him in shock, Simon turned on the overhead heat lamp and switched off the bright vanity lights. The room was dimmer with only the reddish-orange glow. It was warmer too. “You wrote in your diary that it was evening. It was early summer— muggy and hot.”

Simon started unbuttoning his shirt, but then gave up and just pulled it over his head. “I was with all the guys, and we were coming out of the rec center gym after a basketball game. My shirt was off. You wrote that I had a towel around my
neck.” He took a towel from the rack and placed it just so.

“I was limping,” he continued. “I twisted my ankle in the game, and it hurt, so I was standing off to the side, away from the others.” He reached down and took her hand, pulling her up so that she was standing beside him. She could feel the warmth from the heat lamp beating down on her head, but it was nothing compared to the heat she felt from the touch of Simon's hand.

“You came over and asked if I was all right.” His voice was husky as he looked down at her. “You asked if I needed any help walking home. I smiled and thanked you, and told you that Bob or Davey would help me out. But I couldn't get their attention. They were flirting with Jenny Brooks or someone, so you put your arm around my waist …. “

He did just that and Frankie drew in a deep breath at the sensation of her bare arm against the smooth, warm skin of his back.

“And I put my arm around your shoulder and used you as a crutch.”

“Simon—”

He put his finger on her lips. “Shh. Work with
me here, okay, Francine?” He pulled her with him into the corner of the room, opening the door to the big shower stall and stepping inside.

“Si—”

“That's when it started to rain,” he told her, reaching forward and turning on the shower.

“Simon!” Frankie sputtered as warm water hit her directly in the face.

“All my friends ran for home.” Simon held her tightly so she couldn't get away. “Everyone but you. You stayed there with me, getting soaked, because you knew I couldn't run with my ankle hurt the way it was.”

Frankie couldn't keep from laughing. They were standing there, in the shower, with their clothes on, enacting a twelve-year-old's fantasy. It was too absurd.

Or was it?

Water was streaming down Simon's face as he reached forward to push back her wet hair. His eyes were so warm as he gazed at her, Frankie's heart nearly stopped. He was going to kiss her.

“For a twelve-year-old, you were pretty astute,” he murmured. “Standing in the rain is incredibly romantic, don't you think? It washes
everything unimportant away. You don't stand in the rain for small talk, you know?”

Frankie nodded.

“So we're standing there, drenched, and you look into my eyes, and you know this is it. I'm going to kiss you.” His voice dropped. “And then I do.”

Slowly, he lowered his head, stopping a fraction of an inch from her lips, hesitating. He held her gaze, searching her eyes, for the first time really letting her have a good long look at his uncertainty, his vulnerability. He was scared. Frankie saw that this kiss meant something to him, and he was scared that she'd push him away, and equally scared that she
wouldn't.

And just like that, Frankie fell. Headlong, she fell into the bottomless blue depths of his eyes. She was swallowed up, engulfed by his heat, by the complicated warmth of his soul.

And she lifted her chin that extra fraction of an inch and kissed him, lightly brushing her lips across his.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He reached up and cupped her face with his hands and gently, sweetly, claimed her lips with his own.

It wasn't the kind of kiss she'd expected from Simon. It was so soft, so tender. He kissed her again, deeper this time, and her insides melted.

He tasted warm and sweet and so incredibly wonderful. And Frankie wanted more. She put her arms up around his neck, and he responded instantly, pulling her closer as the water from the shower pounded down around them.

And now his kiss was laced with fire. He kissed her again and again, harder, deeper, leaving her breathless and dizzy. His hands were in her hair, sliding down her back, pressing her hips against him. She could feel his arousal, taste his need.

But he pulled back, out of breath, groaning and laughing. He turned the knob that controlled the temperature of the shower, sending an icy blast of water down on top of them. “You were only twelve,” he gasped, turning his face to the water, letting it flow over him, cooling him. “Jeez, I don't think you wrote it
quite
like that.”

Frankie reached across him and turned off the water. In the sudden silence she could hear Simon trying hard to steady his breathing. “I'm not twelve anymore,” she said, trying her best to
sound matter-of-fact, but unable to hide the shaking in her voice.

“If I were writing it today, I wouldn't have ended it there.”

Simon turned and looked at her. The water from his hair was dripping down onto his nose, but he ignored it. His full attention was focused on her.

Frankie became suddenly self-conscious. Her T-shirt was wet and glued to her body, leaving close to nothing to the imagination.

“How
would
you end it?” he asked.

With a wedding ceremony and a lifetime of happily-ever-after. But she couldn't tell him that. That wasn't what he wanted to hear. This was Simon. No-strings, live-for-the-moment Simon. But the sweet fire of his kisses had given her respite from her hurt and disappointment, leaving this burning anticipation.

She wanted more.

She felt a flare of remorse for their friendship— would it survive a night of passion? She didn't know. She didn't care. She knew only what she'd suspected earlier that evening, when she was
dancing with Jazz. She was falling in love with Simon Hunt.

“I'll tell you how I'd end it,” Simon continued when she didn't move, didn't speak. His eyes were molten lava, but he hadn't reached for her. He, too, hadn't moved at all. His face looked almost predatory in the reddish glow from the heat lamp. The light glistened on the smooth, wet plains of his chest. He looked savage and dangerous— sheer desire in a human form. “I'd take you home. And I'd help you out of your wet clothes.”

Frankie could barely stand, dizzy from the image his words conjured up. Yes, she wanted to say.
Yes.
But she couldn't, not when he looked so intense. She needed to see him smile.

“With your teeth?” she asked him. “Because if
I
were writing it, I'd definitely have you take off my clothes with your teeth.”

Simon laughed—a quick, loud bark of humor— a grin exploding on his face. But it didn't douse the heat in his eyes. In fact, it made it burn hotter, brighter. But still he didn't move toward her. “That works really well for me too.”

“You'd carry me to the bed,” Frankie told him.

“And I'd kiss you. All over. Starting with your mouth and slowly working my way down.”

Frankie shivered.
Yes.
“But meanwhile, I'd have succeeded in taking off
your
clothes too.”

“With
your
teeth.”

They stood in the shower stall, grinning at each other. Frankie's heart was pounding so loudly, she was sure Simon could hear it. She could see the hunger in his eyes, on his face, in every muscle of his body. He was breathing hard and fast, but still he didn't move.

“I'm not sure what I'm waiting for,” he admitted, moistening dry lips with his tongue.

“Some kind of sign from God?”

And then the timer on the heat lamp clicked off, plunging them into near darkness.

SIMON LAUGHED SOFTLY,
trying to steady his racing heart.

He could see Frankie in the dim light that came through the door. She was watching him, her wet clothes plastered to her body, her dark eyes wide, waiting. He didn't need a sign from God. He needed her reassurance that this was, indeed, what she wanted to do. And to get that, all he really had to do was ask.

“Francine …. “ His voice was husky, so he stopped and cleared his throat. “Do you want—”

“Yes.”

Yes.
Yes.
He briefly closed his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks. He was going to make love to Frankie. It was actually going to happen. Right here. Right now.

He took a step toward her, reaching, and she met him halfway. Then she was in his arms, kissing him as fiercely as he kissed her. He was giddy with anticipation, delirious with expectation.

I love you.
The words caught in his throat, so he tried to show her instead, with his hands, with his mouth, with his entire being.

She felt so perfect in his arms. He was tall and she was not, but his arms fit around her exactly, her body molding to his as if she'd been made with him in mind.

Her mouth was sweet and hot and he drank her in eagerly, her tongue engaging his in a dance so sensuous and erotic, he nearly lost his balance.

He tugged at her T-shirt and she helped him pull it up and over her head. He used his teeth to drag the strap of her bra down one shoulder and she laughed aloud and unfastened the front clasp.

Simon couldn't breathe. She was gorgeous. Her breasts were full and round, their darkened tips hardened into tight peaks. He wanted to freeze his
surging desire. He wanted to temporarily rein in the waves of his need, to hold himself still, so he could simply gaze at her, so he could step back and take his time and just
look
at Frankie's beautiful body.

But he couldn't keep himself from touching her, from caressing her heart-stoppingly smooth skin, from pressing his face against her soft flesh. He drew one pebble-hard nipple into his mouth, pulling, sucking, laving her with his tongue until she cried out.

He felt her hands on the buckle of his belt, and he knew that the pleasures that awaited him were ones he'd never before known. And that was strange, considering.

In the past, making love to a woman had been purely about pleasure.
His
pleasure. Of course he gave as good as he got, but in the end it was all about his own satisfaction.

But not this time. With Frankie, all bets were off, all rules were rewritten. He wanted to make love with her not merely to quench the thirst of his desire, but to express his emotions, to give voice to these strange and frightening feelings he was experiencing.

He loved her intensely, completely, unswervingly. And he wanted her to know it.

He pushed down her jeans even as he felt her slender fingers unzip his pants. The wet denim clung to her legs, and he laughed his frustration as he knelt down and peeled it from her, pulling her sodden boots from her feet.

Her fingers were in his hair and he looked up at her as she stood finally naked before him. And again, like before, it wasn't enough to look, he had to touch. He pressed his face against the soft smoothness of her belly, sliding his hands over her breasts, her back, her thighs, between her thighs.

“Simon …. “ His name escaped from her lips on a sigh as he touched her most intimately, seeking and finding her wet heat.