touch my cheek.
“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, blinking in alcoholic gratitude. “You’re the best.”
“I thought you hated me,” he said, one eyebrow raising in that elvish way, a grin curling the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t. I was lying,” I answered.
“Just checking,” he said.
And then, quite out of the blue, he kissed me.
Ethan had kissed me before, of course. He’d been my friend since college, had been my brother—in—law, my protector and comforter, and he was Italian, and Italians kiss their relatives. So yes, Ethan had kissed me many times, on the cheek, as in Okay, gotta run, see you next weekend. But not like this.
This was just a gentle, warm press of lips. A sweet, almost innocent kiss after a long, long time of nothingness, and it was such a generous thing, that kiss, such an act of kindness, that my heart stopped in near—wonder. Then it was over, and Ethan pulled back an inch or two and looked at me. There were shards of gold in his brown eyes, and somehow I’d never noticed that. We stared at each other for a few heartbeats, barely breathing.
Without quite realizing it, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us. Ethan’s lips were so soft and full and warm, achingly wonderful. There was the soft, bristly scrape of his three—days beard against my face, the cool silkiness of his hair under my fingers.
The kiss deepened, a little less soft, a little more…meaningful. Ethan shifted, cupped my head in his hands. His tongue brushed mine, and that was it. I lurched against him, gripped a fistful of his shirt in one hand, his skin hot through the fabric. A little sound came from the back of my throat, and the way he tasted and felt made me feel dizzy, because it was so, so good to be touched, and held, and kissed again. God, I missed kissing.
And much to my surprise, I found that I liked kissing Ethan. Very much. It could be said, in fact, that (A) I was starving and (B) he was a buffet, because I’d (C) crawled on top of him, had his head clamped between my hands and was kissing the stuffing out him.
Of course, I’d imagined kissing someone since Jimmy died. Someone who was Not—Jimmy…imagined how I’d feel and how difficult and sad it would be. How I’d compare the two men, Jimmy and Not—Jimmy, and I’d find Jimmy so superior and then wallow in self—pity for my poor widowed self.
Somehow, I wasn’t thinking those things now. Later, it would occur to me that I hadn’t thought about Jimmy at all, not in the way I’d imagined I would. I hadn’t forgotten about him, of course…he was part of me, and so thoughts like, Jimmy’s robe is slipping flashed here and there. But they were interspersed with other thoughts…Oh, God, that feels good, don’t stop
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