Free A Matter of Heart by Heather Lyons Page B

position. Three days, and he’s
     kept his distance. Well, other than when he hugged me, but I think he’s the
     smarter of the two of us and decided that once was more than enough. But now .
     . . now he’s right here by me. Within touching distance, if I was to only
     stretch out—
    “I’m sorry,” he says as
     quietly as one can when there’s shrieking going on around you. When I scrunch
     my nose in confusion, he adds, “For calling you a bitch the other day.”
    A giggle bubbles out of my
     chest due to the absurdity of this. And he smiles, too, even if it’s sad. “I
     deserved it. I called you an asshat.”
    “I knew you didn’t mean it.”
     He grins at my laughter. “Or, at least, you only did in the heat of the
     moment.”
    “Did you?” I ask, and he
     knows what I mean.
    His lips curve even higher.
     “Only in the heat of the moment.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, too. For
     picking that fight.” And I can’t help it. I really can’t. My breathing goes
     shallow and the butterflies that have always loved him take flight in my
     stomach. Even here, even now—he affects me like no one else but his brother
     can.
    “Does it help?” I ask when
     he doesn’t say anything else. “The distance?”
    What I mean is: the distance
     you’ve put between us?
    His eyes leave mine and
     settle on his cuff, once more in heavy rotation around his wrist. “Sometimes.
     Not always.” There’s a small breath of a laugh before he looks back up at me.
     “You?”
    Three days with no hope of
     an exit. I tell him the truth: “The same.”
    He nods, his smile more
     rueful than before. I adore his smiles, all of them—even this bittersweet one.
     Kellan Whitecomb has some of the best smiles ever created. And maybe it’s
     because I’m hungry and tired and totally weak, but I find one of my fingers
     tracing the lips that make those smiles.
    My name is soft and hot
     against my finger, making me shake my head. Because if I let him say anything
     further, he’s just going to spout off some kind of rationalization why I
     shouldn’t be touching him. Why he shouldn’t touch me.
    I drop my hand so it can
     join my other to rest against his chest. His heart sprints in time with mine.
     And then, because . . . because . . .
    I have no real reasons other
     than I want to and think I might die if I don’t.
    I
     press my lips against his.
    We are full-on, insane,
     frenzied lips-crashing-against-one-another making out. My hands don’t quite
     know what to do; his are the same, and it’s like we’re grappling with one
     another with energy that comes from nowhere, trying to memorize each other’s
     bodies with the skin on our fingertips. He pushes me down against the blanket,
     and my senses flood in pleasure. He is above me, over me, and his lips are
     against mine and it’s so heady, so deliriously overwhelming that I can, for the
     first time in days, block out the screaming surrounding us.
    I moan against his mouth,
     and he groans against mine, and our tongues go to war against one another. But
     then Caleb goes and says something I can’t ignore. He’ll know , he
     shouts, an elephant’s weight of force behind his words. You think Jonah
     isn’t keeping close tabs on his brother right now ?
    It’s enough for me to jerk
     away. And for Kellan to leap away from me, like he can feel the fire under my
     skin, putting twice the distance between us than usual. There’s a wild look in
     his eyes, desire mixed with agony, and then dipped in heartbreak.
    What
     have we done?
    We do not discuss what
     happened. Hours go by, sleep goes by, and I think about it, obsess over it, and
     yet . . . I can’t say anything. Because, what would I say? What would even be
     good enough?
    I watch Kellan squat in
     front of one of the small tubes leading out of the end of the tunnel he’d found
     on day one. There are three in total, but they’re all so small it’s impossible
     for either of us to fit through. Even