“So,” he says, interrupting my thoughts, “I seem to remember there being talk of kissing? Unless you’re the one who didn’t brush their teeth last night.” Feeling daring, I lean down and press my lips to the closest part of him I can reach: his shoulder. He sucks in a sharp, painful breath, like I stabbed him with a knife instead of kissing him. I do it one more time, in a different spot. Scooting closer so that I don’t have to reach as far and my front is pressed against his side, I skirt the bruise and kiss the center of his chest. His unmoving chest.
