The Hunting Moon (The Luminaries, #2)

by Susan Dennard

Winnie hooks a finger into Jay’s hoodie and yanks him against her. Then she rolls onto her toes and brings her lips to his. It’s both exactly like she remembers from when he kissed her in the snow four years ago … and also nothing like that at all. The same explosion rocks in her stomach, in her chest, in her brain, but now she is older. Jay is older. They are adult bodies flush against each other, and the kiss isn’t ending after a single Mississippi surrounded by snow.

Instead, Jay is sliding his hands behind Winnie’s back and she is sliding hers behind his, where god, she can feel every line of him. All those planes and grooves she saw three nights ago—now she gets to touch them. To pull and tug at his hoodie while his lips pull and tug at her.

For a brief fraction of a moment, while her teeth collide with Jay’s, she is angry. Because yes, he should have told her the truth four years ago so then they could have been doing this all that time instead of secretly wanting each other from afar. But her anger fades as quickly as it arrived, replaced by an inability to breathe and an uncertainty she actually needs to breathe. Jay tastes like toothpaste, and he feel...