Jennifer Archer - Sandwiched

He pulls a pack of cigarettes off the dash and offers me one.

“No, thanks.” I point at my neck. “The strep. I mean, I’m well and everything, but I don’t want to push it yet.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. I won’t smoke, either, I guess.” He tosses the pack back where he found it. “Sorry I didn’t call yesterday. School and work have been kicking my ass.”

“Where’d you say you work?”

“At the convenience store on campus.” Judd reaches across the seat, tucks my hair behind my ear. “Just part-time. Until I graduate.”

“Oh.” I nibble my lower lip. Oh? Oh? Why can’t I think of anything else to say? It’s like my mind erased the second he touched me. “I don’t work.”

“Maybe you should.” He smiles. “Then you could rent a place with some friends and we wouldn’t have to sit out in front of your mom’s like a couple of teenagers.” He looks out the window at the house then shifts back to me, tracing the curve of my ear with a fingertip. “Let’s go for a ride. I passed by a park on the way here.”

My heart does a backflip. “I can’t. Really.”

I have the strangest feeling. Like there’s this hum of energy between us, a current of electricity stretching from Judd to me, connecting us. Being this close to him makes me excited and freaked at the same time, though I don’t know what I’m freaked about. It’s not like we weren’t even closer on the dance floor Saturday night. But this feels different. Tonight, we’re alone.

Judd takes my hand and jerks his head, nodding me over. “Come here.”

I scoot across the seat, closer to him. He puts his arm around me, and I tilt my head back and gaze up at him. No guy has ever looked at me the way he is, like he’s seeing me inside out and naked and memorizing every detail. I could fall right into his dark, narrowed eyes, but something tells me I’d never find my way out again. I don’t want to turn away, but I’m afraid not to, afraid I’ll lose myself, as weird as that sounds. So I move my focus to his lips. They’re not too thin, not too full, nicely shaped, parted a little. Beneath the lower one, there’s a soft shadow of beard stubble.

When I got into the car, I was sort of cold, but I’m not cold now; that’s not why I shiver. His fingers stroke my arm, right beneath my shoulder, scattering goose bumps across my skin and making the muscles in my stomach pull tight.

“Erin,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine, soft and firm at the same time, warm, drawing me in, tasting of cinnamon gum and menthol as our breaths mix. It’s not like I’ve never been kissed before; I have. But never like this, like I’ve stepped onto a roller coaster and there’s no stopping it, no turning back. My control is whisked away on a rush of air while another part of me comes alive. The world outside blurs until the only things vivid are Judd and me; the texture of his hair between my fingers, the pull of his cinnamon lips and musky male scent, a soft scrape of beard against my cheek.

Quiet, insistent sounds come from deep in his throat. He shifts our positions so that I slide down some, my head pressed into the seat back, and he is centered between the dash and me. I feel surrounded, enclosed, cocooned by his hard body, his arms. His warm, dry hand cups my chin then skims my face, across my collarbone, my shoulder, down the side of my breast. Before I realize what he has in mind, his fingers inch beneath my T-shirt and he’s touching my stomach, making my body hum and vibrate…vibrate….

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