I AM THE SUN.

Warsan Shire (via simply-quotes)

Thanks to your tweets, here is the scene. Although I liked a lot about this scene, I ended up changing it to the “on the beach/in the Bug” scene that now appears in The Boy Most Likely To…for several reasons–this came too late, the way I had it situated, and also, I decided it was too mature and ‘romancey’ for a couple of teenagers. I love romance, but I was a tad more awkward then, and I figured my 17 year old hero and 19 year old heroine would be too. What do you think? 

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SCENE:

Tim puts his hand on mine, squeezing. He slants his head back against the couch cushion and closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again.

“It’s weird.”

“What?” I too have dropped my head back, nudging my foot against Tim’s bare toes. Why can’t I stop touching him? I mean… there are people who find being physically close to other people hard. I’m not one of them. For one thing, that would never go over in our house—lots of us, not much room…But my parents are easy with affection and all we Garretts are the same. Still… something about Tim I find…physically irresistible. That night I gave him a massage…he was asleep for quite a while before I stopped smoothing his forehead, tangling my fingers in his hair, stroking his back, before I covered him up with a blanket and left. I thought then it was compassion…. But there’s no sympathy, no desire to give him what he hasn’t had enough of, going on here and now…it’s a need all my own.

“You’re all fierce and edgy, Alice Garrett…why are you restful to be around?”

“You’re edgy yourself, Tim Mason. Maybe we short each other out?”

He laughs ruefully. “I doubt that.”

Me too. Nothing wrong with the electricity here. Tim closes his eyes again, his lashes feathering dark against those high cheekbones. His hand, which, like the bridge of his nose, is lightly spattered with freckles, still holds mine, strong and warm against my stomach. I take a deep breath, leaning over, almost into his lap, my other hand on his shoulder, my face a breath away from his.

His eyelids flip open. He searches my lips, my eyes, and swallows.

I shift my hand from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, nudging at his still slightly damp hair. I pull closer, closing that small gap between his lips and mine.

When our mouths meet there’s one instant when Tim freezes. I sense the tension in his hand and his neck muscles, then he sets both palms against my cheeks and dives into me.

Deep instantly, knowing and sure, wildly hungry and fiercely compelling at the same time. So not what I expected from my little brother’s ironically joking buddy. I hear myself make this noise in my throat and I’m bending against his chest, sinking into him. Tim’s hands clasp into my hair, his teeth nip my lower lip, he’s burying his lips in the hollow of my throat, sliding his tongue tantalizingly along the curve of my jaw, delving lusciously back into my mouth. I’m shaking, actually shaking, and making sounds of need, surprise and desperation which would embarrass me if I could stop. But I can’t.

The last of the afternoon light tilts through the window, warm on my hair, gilding Tim’s shoulders. My hands move everywhere, over his back, sweeping up his triceps, back into his thick hair. His fingers remain carefully on my face, along my jaw line, rubbing my bottom lip in between kisses. I keep trying to open my eyes and Tim kisses them shut, as though he is trying to stop me from remembering who I’m with.

And yes.

Tim? This is Tim…?

I’ve imagined kissing him, once or twice—maybe a few more times than that—all that flirting, plus his full sulky mouth, one no girl can help but speculate about. But I pictured him eager and maybe a little sloppy, as clumsy, klutzy, with his lips as he sometimes was with his come-ons. I postured myself as the sophisticated older woman, patiently showing him what I might like, and exactly how. Not this way, sweetheart, that way. Over here, not there.

I got it wrong. He’s certainly willing, but able is what stands out. Past proficient into gifted, past gifted into revelatory. All that with an undertone that would have been the last thing I imagined…tenderness, restraint, care.

Everywhere his lips and hands touch me I feel beautiful. Treasured, even. Because I want those heady feelings in more places, I reach up and grab his palms, planning to move them…I’m not sure where.

Tim, however, must think I’m calling a halt. He freezes, takes a deep breath, then pushes me off his lap and crosses the room in about two strides.

I sit there, dazed, on the couch. His back is turned me, muscle so tight, breathing loud, rapid, as if he’d been running. Before he got so fit.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Shit. Alice, I’m so sorry.”

He thinks I stopped him because I was angry or offended.

“No, Tim, I—”

“S’ okay. I understand.” He interrupts, turning toward me, now, eyes stormy and distant. “I didn’t mean to—I couldn’t—I—” He shakes his head. “I’d better…” Another deep gulp of air. “I’ll get out of here. I’ll…uh…you just stay as long as you need to in case Brad comes back. Or whatever. I’ll get out of here.”

He grabs his keys off the kitchen counter, not looking at me.

“Tim, it’s not. I’m not—”

“I get it,” he says tightly. “Bye.”

And he’s gone before I can explain a thing.

Me: Hello, Your Highness. Nice abs.

Maxon: Thanks??? I’m Prince Maxon… But you can just call me Maxon.

H.M. Ward, Secrets Vol. 4 (via simply-quotes)