American Queen

Perhaps he felt it too, because he murmured, “You’re trembling. Are you scared of me?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. It was the truth.

He liked that answer, it seemed, because he smiled. “I’d like to touch you again, if that’s okay.”

I thought of his lips on my finger, the bruises under his eyes, the heavy ache somewhere deep in my body. “Yes, please,” I said.

His hands came up under my elbows, cradling them as he searched my face. He must have seen what I felt, the echo of my words stamped all over my face:

yes please

yes please

yes please

And then he pulled me closer, those large, warm hands sliding behind me, one planted firmly between my shoulder blades and the other against the small of my back, and I could feel every curve of my body pressed against the wide, hard expanse of his chest. My head tilted back of its own accord, and his eyes dropped to the long arch of my throat.

“Stay there,” he breathed. “Don’t move until I tell you.” And then he bent down to press his lips against my neck.

I shivered—no one had ever done that before. Everything he was doing to me, every command and touch and caress—it was all new.

Virgin territory.

“What’s your name, angel?” he asked. I was still frozen like he’d asked, and he was clearly enjoying it, running his lips down to my collarbone.

“Greer.”

“Greer,” he echoed, nuzzling into me. “Tell me, Greer, do you like my lips on your skin?”

“Yes,” I responded, a little breathlessly. “And—”

“And what?”

“You telling me to do things. Ordering me. Moving my body.”

He groaned at that, lifting his head from my neck and pressing me closer to him. Even through the uniform jacket and my own dress, I could feel the firm lines of his chest and stomach. And for the first time, I could smell him. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. He smelled like a fire burning.

Burn me, I thought, a little wildly. Consume me.

His gaze fell down to my mouth, and his eyelids hooded.

“You’re so young…” he whispered.

Somehow, I knew what was coming next, I knew what he’d say. In the same way he’d asked for permission to touch me, he’d need to know it was okay to do more. He’d need reassurance that I was old enough, that I was an adult, that my consent would have legal weight.

I wanted to lie. I needed to lie. Because if I told him what he wanted to hear, I knew he’d kiss me. And nothing seemed more important than that right now, nothing seemed more urgent and necessary. I needed him to kiss me, if he didn’t, my body would curl into ash like kindled paper and disappear, please please please—

Except I wasn’t a liar.

Except I wasn’t supposed to kiss anybody, that was the promise I made to myself nine years ago after all, and anybody included handsome American military officers.

Except I was certain that—somehow—he’d know I was lying. I knew those green eyes would blaze into mine and illuminate the outline of every lie and half-truth I’d ever told.

“Tell me you’re eighteen,” he whispered.

“I’m not.”

“Damn you.”

And then he tilted my face back up to his, and his mouth came down over mine anyway.

I’d never kissed a boy or a girl, never even tried, and now I had a man’s lips firm and warm over mine, insistent and demanding. If I had been thinking clearly, I might have worried that I would be bad at kissing, that I would be laughably awkward and a disappointment to this beautiful stranger. But I wasn’t thinking clearly, the only thoughts I had were single words—fire and leather and more—and I didn’t need to know what to do.

He knew. And that was how it was supposed to be.

One warm hand cupped the nape of my neck while the other pressed against the small of my back, and his lips parted my own. I gasped the moment I felt him lick inside my mouth—it tickled.

It was soft—dangerously soft—silken, and warm. Every nerve ending I had came frighteningly alive, crackling with need.

And all from one lick of his tongue.

I opened my mouth more to him, sighing as he pressed me closer, so close that I would have lost my balance if he let go of me. It felt so right to open to him, to mold against his body, and I wanted to offer him every inch of my skin. The column of my neck, the space between my breasts, my inner thighs…everywhere.

The thought made me bold, and I realized I wanted to kiss him back. He groaned as I tentatively licked inside his mouth, and I felt his entire body shudder as I did it again.

He tasted sweet and clean, like mint and gin, and the more I kissed him, the more I could taste the lingering salt-tang of my blood. My finger stung from the cut, and I wanted him to suck on it again, I wanted it so badly, and so I pressed it against his lips and into his mouth.

His eyes burned as he closed his lips around my finger and sucked, and everything felt throbbing and swollen—especially the space between my legs. And then his lips were hot on my neck, covering the dip of my clavicle, nibbling on the lobe of my ear.

“Greer,” he breathed. “God, where did you come from?”

I don’t know, but I feel like I’ve always been waiting for you.

And then his forehead fell against my neck. “And why aren’t you eighteen?” he mumbled into my skin.

“How old are you?” I asked.