She turns toward us, and Noah steps forward, the hand at my mouth moving to my hip as he steers me even further back until I feel my body pressed against the cool brick of the building behind me.
"Quiet," he whispers as her heels click on the concrete.
I raise a brow, annoyed. I hardly need reminding.
But then he steps closer, and I gasp audibly. He catches me with a sharp glance, and I point up, indicating his hair.
For a moment, he frowns, apparently confused. Then he looks up, and notices what I've just realized--that as we'd moved further into this alcove, we'd passed through a sliver of light from a nearby fixture. The beam has hit Noah's hair, making it spark and shine.
He takes one more step toward me, so that we are both in this tiny, shadowed space. Now, instead of merely his finger on my lips or his hands on my shoulders, his entire body is flush against mine, one hand on the wall behind me for balance. I want to tell him to lean back, but we both know that would put him in the light. And all my plea would do is tell him that his proximity is making me nervous. Which he probably already knows.
Nervous and, damn me, far too aware of every touch. Every breath.
My palm is flat against his chest, though I don't remember lifting it. I can feel the tempo of his heart, and am relieved to find that it's galloping, just like my own. My eyes are aligned with his neck, and even in the dark I can see the curve of it rising to a strong jaw that my lips have traced so many times. It's been years, but I can still imagine the feel of his skin against my mouth, the rough sensuality of his beard stubble against my lips, my cheeks.
I close my eyes, trying to ward off the memories, then open them again when I hear the woman's footsteps draw near.
Noah leans in, his hips pressing against my lower abs as he uses his entire body to shield me. If the girl sees anything, it will look like a couple grabbing some alone time in a dark corner. Either that, or a drunken man all by himself. I have no clue if I'm even visible at all.
I hold my breath, hyperaware of the sound of her passing, and even more aware of the feel of Noah's body against mine. I tilt my head up, and his face is right there, his lips parted, the scent of whiskey on his breath. His eyes are on mine, and time melts away.
I don't know how long we stand like that, breathing each other's air, seeing each other's thoughts. It seems no longer than an instant; it seems like forever.
Neither of us moves, and after a moment, I hear the clink of the door shutting as the girl goes back inside. But still, we stay frozen, as if we both have one foot in the past, and if we so much as blink, the spell will be broken.
Then his head tilts. It's barely even the hint of a movement, but it's enough. I straighten, knowing I need to push past him. But before I can move, his mouth closes over mine.
I freeze. I'm flat against the wall, completely trapped. Some small part of me wants to push him back--my hand is already on his chest. It would be so easy to do. But I can't--I won't. And soon that tiny seed of rationality is swallowed up by need and want and greed.
It's as if I've been starving, and Noah is the finest chocolate, the most tempting liquor. I want to savor him, but I can't resist. I clutch him tight, matching his heat, his need. His mouth is hard and demanding against mine, as if he's trying to consume me, to draw me in, to claim me completely. And so help me, I want that. In this moment, I don't care about the past or my anger or my hurt. All I want is to recapture what we had. All I want is the man I once knew and that touch, that passion, so all-consuming. So combustible.
So goddamn dangerous.
The thought hits me hard, and I push away from him, gasping with shock, my skin hot from a mixture of lust and self-loathing. I'd been drawn into the past, all right. A past when things were good. When I'd let myself believe we had a future.
But that wasn't how the story ended, and I shouldn't have let myself block out reality any more than I should have let him kiss me. Because in the real past, he left me.
In the real past, he walked away so that he could marry someone else.
"Kiki, I'm sorry. I--"
"Just go," I snap, as fresh tears prick my eyes. "Just go back to your wife."
He flinches, and I expect him to say something. To make some excuse.
But he doesn't. He just backs away from me, and as he passes under the light, I can see his expression. Hurt. Confusion. And something I can't quite identify.
He's in the middle of the alley when he speaks again, his face lost in the shadows. "I really am sorry," he says as he starts to walk away. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
But whether he means the kiss or seeing me again or our entire history, I really don't know.
4
"This is nice," Kiki murmured, as she leaned back against Noah's chest.
His chin rested on her head, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her own arms were crossed as she held on to him, her thumbs gently brushing his skin, the touch too casual to be any sort of intentional caress--and all the more intimate because of that easy familiarity.
They were standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the south wall of his Austin condo. Fifteen stories below, the river reflected the pink and purple of the sun that was setting in the west, as if the river was flowing from that melting ball of fire.