Starting With You

24. Jesus, Teddy. You made a mess.

Teddy

THE REMAINDER OF THE EVENING FEELS LIKE I'm walking on a pillow of clouds. Periodically, Rylie and I will find each other's eyes and burst out in excited squeals before reeling it in and acting as though it never happened. Everyone gives up asking for an explanation after the third or fourth time, but Jensen gives me a look each time that says I'll be explaining later. Neither Rylie nor I are prone to squealing, so the behavior is oddly suspicious.

The setting sun paints the scene in a warm glow and the twinkly lights provide just enough illumination to feel isolated inside the bubble of activity. A local band plays classic rock in the background, the perfect soundtrack for the occasion.

It's either these atmospheric details or the beers buzzing in my system that feels as if the night has been cast under a spell of a romantic witch somewhere in the shadowed outskirts, watching her magic weaving into the night.

"Want to dance?" Jensen whispers into my ear, his arm around my waist.

He's been overly affectionate tonight, always finding a way to touch me or invade the bubble of my personal space—wrapping me in his arms from behind, sitting me on his lap around the bonfire, clutching my hand as we weave through the crowds, brushing a hand along my arm as we chat in a group.

And the kisses. Let's not forget about the kisses. Stolen kisses when no one is looking—on my cheek, along my neck, softly on the underside of my wrist, quick pecks on the lips, and lingering ones with promises for more later.

The teasing touches and kisses have me on edge, wanting more, but also reveling in the intimacy growing between us.

The transition from friends has been so natural, I almost forget we spent our whole lives fighting against our feelings. Although I push for more physically, I must admit Jensen might be right in his wishes to not rush things.

Would I feel such a rush when his arm brushes mine in a sea of people if we were skipping all the early stages of intimacy? Would I notice the way he gulps down a rush of desire when my hand innocently skims against the bulge in his jeans? Would the touch of his warm hand skimming under my shirt send lightning bolts of excitement through me? Or would the whispered words in my ear cause goosebumps to stampede over my whole body?

I'll never admit any of this to Jensen, though, because my impatience for more often wins over the slow pace of intimacy. I'll always want more with him.

I grab his hand and lead him to the designated dance floor in front of the stage. A handful of couples are snuggled up in each other's arms with a smattering of kids jumping and skipping around them.

We stop in the center, Jensen pressing our bodies close together, moving us slowly to the music. I tangle my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and rest my head against his chest, sighing against the steady beat of his heart. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, leaving his face pressed into my hair as he slowly spins us, our feet intertwined in the grass.

I feel his hand skirt under the hem of my shirt, the heat from his skin branding me wherever it touches. He rubs it lightly over the small of my back a few times before coming to a rest, his hand spanning the entirety of my lower back. I sigh again.

Is there anything better than being held by this man?

When the song ends, he tips my face up to look at him. "Ready to go?" Before I can answer, he presses a soft kiss to my lips.

We say our goodbyes and wander out of the illuminated scene into the shadowed night.

I can hear Scout the minute we're stomping up the stairs to Jensen's apartment. The dog is pawing at the door, whimpering, and it makes me laugh. "Poor guy feels left out."