His hand pressed on my back, then lower—my butt—fingers gripping hard as he kissed me deeper. The hoodie fell, sliding off my shoulders and pooling somewhere on the seat, forgotten.
And I remembered.
My first kiss with him.
Under the oak tree. Behind the tool shed. A dry, clumsy press of lips that tasted like stolen lemon candy. I had been five. He had been nine. And I had actually thought—stupid, beautiful child that I was—that kissing made babies.
We should kiss more, he'd said, his green eyes serious. So we can make a baby.
We kissed anytime we could after that. Innocent. Secret. Ours.
He was good then.
But now?
Now he was perfect.
His lips knew exactly where to press, when to soften, when to demand. His hands—God, his hands—mapped my body with a confidence that stole my breath. Was it twenty-one years of practice? Or twenty-one years of waiting?
I didn't know. I just knew I needed to figure out where all this was going.
