Easy

stroking over a nipple while his mouth moved with mine, leaving me lightheaded. Against my hand, his heart thumped in time with mine.
    I forgot all about laughing.

    ***
    My lips were sensitive and tingly. Touching them brought rushes of gooey memories—his hands, and what they’d done in concert with his mouth—the crazy-making kisses, and the few words he’d spoken. You’re so beautiful .
    I wanted to see the sketches, so he showed them to me. They were good. Amazingly good. I told him so and earned his barely-there smile.
    “What will you do with them?” I asked, more than a little belatedly.
    “Redo them in charcoal, probably.”
    I waited for more. “And then?”
    He shrugged into his hoodie and stared down at me. “Tack them to my bedroom wall?”
    My lips parted, but I had no idea what to say. Bedroom wall?
    His eyes returned to the pad, turned to the second drawing. “Who wouldn’t want to wake up to this?”
    That statement had a ninety-nine percent chance of meaning what it seemed to suggest, but I wasn’t sure enough to reply in kind, so I said nothing. He closed the sketchpad and laid it on the bookcase near the door. Taking my chin in his hand, he rubbed his thumb across my lower lip, gently.
    “Ah, crap.” He pulled his hand away and looked at his fingers. “I forgot what my hands look like after drawing.” He looked at my shirt. “You may have little gray marks… everywhere.”
    Assuming I now had a gray lip and possibly faint streaks of gray across my abdomen and the upper curves of my breasts, I couldn’t think what to say beyond, “Oh.”
    He balled his hands into fists, set one under my chin to raise it again and used the other to tug me closer. “Don’t worry, no fingers.” Dragging my body against his, he kissed me, his back against the door to my room. In this position, there was no hiding what his body wanted from me. I pressed against him and he groaned into my mouth and wrenched his mouth from mine, breathing raggedly. “I have to go now, or I’m not going.”
    This was the moment for me to say Stay , but I couldn’t. Kennedy flashed through my mind, saying something oh-so-similar not that long ago. Even more insane was the thought of Landon, and a possible email waiting for me. Neither of those things should matter. Not in this moment.
    Lucas straightened and cleared his throat. Kissing my forehead and the tip of my nose, he opened the door. “Later,” he said, and was gone.
    I gripped the doorframe and watched him walk away, pulling the beanie over his tousled hair. Every girl he passed glanced up. Some turned and watched until he reached the stairwell door, before whipping their heads around to see where he’d come from. I retreated into my room and left them to their speculation.
    The interrupting email wasn’t from Landon, it was from Mom—and contained my parents’ itinerary for their ski trip to Colorado. A ski trip that I’d not been invited to join. A ski trip scheduled for the only mid-semester weekend I’d planned to spend at home—a holiday weekend, no less.
    Still, I had a difficult time stirring up any real anger when I opened her email, for two reasons. One, I was oddly disappointed that it wasn’t Landon’s name in my inbox, and two, I was so high from being thoroughly kissed by Lucas that I didn’t care about a holiday eleven days in the future, or how I’d be spending it.

    ***
    By Sunday evening, I was eating spoonfuls of peanut butter for dinner, watching He’s Just Not That Into You , and telling myself I was clearly no exception to anyone’s rule. Landon still hadn’t emailed, and I hadn’t heard from Lucas, either.
    Erin was due back any moment, and I was eager for her boisterous, colorful presence in our room. Too much quiet left me depressed and consuming condiments for meals.
    My inbox dinged and I debated whether or not to pause the movie to check it. I wasn’t in the mood for another of my mother’s efforts to shed her remorse about deserting me on a major holiday. So far, she’d tried logic (“It was your year to go to Kennedy’s.”), emotional blackmail (“Your father and I haven’t had a trip alone in twenty years.”), and one grudging invitation to join them (“I suppose we could get you a ticket. But you’d have to sleep on the sofa or a cot, because the rooms are undoubtedly booked.”). I ignored the first two and said No, thanks to the third.
    What next—an attempt to buy me off? A proposed shopping