Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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I messed up.
I kissed Micah Costa. Like a full-on, tongue in his mouth, hands in his hair, I could stay wrapped up with you like this forever kind of kiss, and honestly, if Luke wouldn't have come in when he did, who knows what would have happened?
I think I actually blacked out when he wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me. I lost all self-control. I mean, I practically undressed him. My fingers were seconds away from undoing the button on his pants — which is incredibly mortifying to think about now, but also, for some reason, the only thing I've been able to think about since I walked out of that bathroom.
I sat on the couch with Luke, who definitely knew something had just happened between his best friend and me, and tried to concentrate on finishing the three-page study guide that was assigned for homework. Although, it was a little hard to focus on the different kinds of psychological conditioning when I could still taste his tongue on mine.
I've been daydreaming about that taste ever since. About how his body felt pressed up against mine. About how my heart nearly hammered out of my chest when he picked me up like I was nothing and brought me back to the counter. About how hard his muscles felt under my exploring hands. About how mesmerizing it felt to have his expert tongue exploring my mouth while his thumb brushed across the line of my jaw. About how he tilted my head back to kiss me deeper. About how divine he looked standing there shirtless, decorated in the most beautiful black ink artwork.
From knuckle to shoulder and down under his arm on his side, he's covered in tattoos. I want to draw him. I want to recreate the art on his lightly tanned skin, the hard lines and contours of his muscular body, the now near-permanent, haughty smirk on his full lips. And those eyes — dark and stormy, so gray they might as well be black sometimes. I want to trace his hard jawline, feel his soft hair between my fingers, and taste his strawberry-tinted tongue exploring my mouth again.
Except, I can't.
I can't keep thinking about Micah Costa like this. I'm already more invested than I thought I was. His voicemail showed me that. I was jealous. Undeniably jealous. The kind of jealous that grew horns and turned green and wreaked havoc, which is exactly what I did when I saw him. I snapped. I should have just kept it causal, relaxed — indifferent, even — because that's what someone who's just a friend would have done. I would have congratulated him on the draft. I would have told him how amazing that accomplishment is, and then I would have moved on with my day. Instead of acting like a rational person, all I could focus on was that he hooked up with another girl.
I can't be jealous of that. I'm the one who keeps drawing this line in the sand. Who keeps preaching about being just friends and going on non-dates and keeping things PG-13. But that all came crashing down the second our lips connected in his bathroom. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I couldn't reason with myself. All I wanted to do was taste him, to feel him against me, to experience what body shot girl got to experience. I just wanted to throw away every rational thought in my head telling me not to cross that line and just finally do what I've wanted to do since we were tangled together, covered in spilled paint, on the community center closet floor.
