He took a deep breath—he was so close, just on the other side of the screen. “It’s illegal for a teacher to have a relationship with a student, isn’t it?”
“Is that what this is?”
“Maybe it’s what it could be. Maybe it’s what I’d like it to be.”
So fucking confident. So not what I was or ever would be. My smile drained away along with any excitement I’d had about this conversation, leeching out of me and into the cold concrete under my ass. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough that I want to know more. Can I see you?” The bamboo screen shifted, his perfect fingers gripping the edge.
“No!” I shot my hand out and covered his, keeping the screen in place.
“Why?”
“I . . . I can’t . . . you don’t . . . I’m just not ready, OK?”
“I don’t understand. Mena, are you OK? I was joking before, but are you actually a teacher at my school?”
“No. I’m a student.”
The relief was palpable in his sigh. He released his grip on the screen only to push farther past it and take my hand.
As his perfect, warm fingers tangled with mine, he asked, “Mena, what’s this about? Why don’t you want me to know who you are?”
Because you’ll stop talking to me. “It’s complicated. I just want you to know me—the real me—before you know who I am.”
After a beat of silence, we both chuckled.
“Yeah, that made more sense in my head than it did coming out of my mouth,” I said, glad that some of the heavy tension had lifted. “Look, this is all pretty new, and I like you . . .”
I took a deep breath, hardly believing I’d been that honest with a boy about how I felt.
He jumped in before I could keep speaking. “I like you too. A lot.”
I squeezed his hand, running my thumb up and down his, taking a moment to get my shit together while I jumped around and screamed on the inside like a fangirl at a BTS concert. “Enough to be patient with me? I know this is weird. I just . . . I think it could be kind of fun?”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being stalked by someone who’s probably in the CIA.”
I laughed. “I think you mean the FBI. The CIA isn’t supposed to operate on home soil.”
“Why do you know that? The evidence is mounting.”
“A friend of mine said it a while back, and it just kind of stuck.” Harlow spent so much time on the internet I wasn’t entirely sure when she slept, but she was full of random-ass facts.
“Oh? And what—” A low thrumming noise cut Turner off. His hand tensed around mine as all the lights went out. “What the fuck?”
“Chill. The electricity just went out. Happens about once a month on this side of town—sometimes more often in the summer. The grid is old and unreliable. It’ll be back up in ten minutes.”
“Seriously? What a pain in the ass.”
“You get used to it.”
The sun had gone down an hour ago, and the night was overcast. Without the glow of the moon, it was pretty much pitch black. And I had at least five minutes before the lights came back on.
I extracted my hand from Turner’s and got to my feet.
“Wait, Mena—”
“Shh!” With the electricity out, there was no background noise either. My parents were asleep, but we had to be extra quiet, just in case. “Stand up.”
“Did you just shush me?” he whispered, sounding amused, but he shuffled and did as I asked.
I gripped the edge of the bamboo screen and unhooked it from the nails holding it to the wall. When I rolled it aside, there was nothing between us but the metal railing separating his side of the balcony from mine.
My eyes were adjusting to the heavy darkness, and I could just make out his silhouette. I reached out and tentatively placed my hand on his arm. It was ridiculously hard, like warm rocks under his skin.
He responded to my touch immediately, reaching out and placing his hands on my waist.
“Oh, hey, neighbor,” he whispered, leaning in.
“Hey, stranger,” I whispered back, moving my arms up to his shoulders. Why was every part of him so damn solid? And why did I want to run my hands over every inch of it? And why was being so close to him making a heavy, pressured feeling appear low in my belly? “I know we can’t technically see each other, but I hope this makes up for it a bit.”
His hands flexed, and we leaned into each other more.
“Yeah, this makes up for it.” His breath fanned over my face. He was so close I could almost make out the lines of his jaw, his straight nose. But none of the details. And if I couldn’t see the color of his eyes, I was pretty positive he couldn’t see my birthmark.
My boobs pressed against his hard chest, and my breath hitched. He smelled like fresh rain and something warm and comforting—amber, maybe.
“Fuck, you smell good.” Zero filter. I closed my eyes and cringed, but he just pulled me closer, his hands moving to my back, the railing digging into my hips. I hated that damn railing.
“You feel good. Can I kiss you?”
“Please . . .” I didn’t even have time to consider how desperate I sounded. The word was barely out of my mouth before he closed the miniscule distance between our lips and kissed me firmly.
He sighed and moved his lips against mine in a determined but gentle way. His body was hard and lean, but his lips were pillow soft.
It didn’t take long for the kiss to intensify. I don’t know if he darted his tongue out or if I sucked on his bottom lip first, but then our tongues were involved, and little gasping breaths were coming out of my throat.
The thrum of the transformer on the corner snapped me out of the moment, adrenaline coursing through my veins as surely as the electricity was rushing through the wires. I knew that sound—I had about five seconds before the lights turned back on.
“Fuck.” I pulled away abruptly, and he grunted, his body following mine, his hands gripping my clothing.
“Shit. Sorry.” He let go immediately, and I shoved his shoulders until he was safely on his side of the balcony. I yanked the bamboo screen across just as the streetlights below once again bathed the world in artificial light.
I chuckled through shaky breaths, the exhilaration of having kissed Turner, then gotten away with what I’d just pulled, still igniting my every nerve. “That was . . .”
“Yeah . . .” he breathed. “Are you sure you don’t work for the CIA? That was a little too perfectly timed.”
“FBI, remember? And I never denied it.”
He laughed, his voice lower, huskier—it sent desire shooting through my body again. I wanted to feel his lips against mine as he made that sound; I wanted to feel it reverberate through his chest. I clenched my thighs, suddenly aware of the moisture in my underwear.
I had to get out of there before I broke down and did something stupid—like show him my face. “I have to get to bed.”
“Wait.” The urgency in his voice pulled me up short. He shuffled around for a moment, then shoved his hand through the narrow gap between the bamboo and the wall, his phone clutched in his perfect fingers. Fingers that had been digging into my back moments ago, holding me against him as he . . .