Our kissing turned to making out. His breath was hot against my face, then my cheek, and neck. He ran his hands up and down my back, tugging at the collared shirt I was wearing, untucking it from my dark jeans, but never taking it off.
“Couch?” he suggested. “My neck’s killing me.”
“Bedroom?” I asked. When his face seemed to pale, I grabbed his hands. “Only because rented furniture gives me the heebie jeebies. I’d rather be with you on something you own.”
He nodded, but I could also tell he didn’t quite believe me. Maybe he didn’t want to. After all, this wasn’t as if it was a one-night stand, a decision between two people made in the heat of the moment. This was something that had been building from afar for years. And the tender way in which he kissed me, then grabbed my hand and led
