Twilight by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online

he’d told me to ignore Paul, “I think you should be getting home, querida . If your mother should wake and find you gone, you know she’ll worry. Besides, don’t you have school in a few hours?”
    “But—”
    “ Querida. ” Jesse leaned over the gearshift and slipped a hand behind my neck. “You worry too much.”
    “Jesse, I—”
    But I didn’t get to finish what I’d started to say—nor, a second later, could I even recall what I’d meant to tell him. That’s because he’d pulled me—gently, but inexorably— toward him, and covered my mouth with his.
    Of course, it’s impossible when Jesse’s lips are on mine to think about anything other than the way those lips make me feel… which is unbelievably cherished and desired. I don’t have a whole lot of experience in the kissing department, but even I know that what happens every time Jesse kisses me is… well, extraordinary.
    And not just because he’s a ghost, either. All the guy has to do is lower his lips to mine and it’s like a Fourth of July sparkler going off deep inside me, flaming brighter and brighter until I can hardly bear the white-hot heat anymore. The only thing that seems as if it might put the fire out is pressing myself closer to him….
    But, of course, that only makes it worse, because then Jesse—who usually seems to have a fire of his own burning somewhere—ends up touching me someplace, beneath my shirt, for instance, where, of course, I want to be touched, but where he doesn’t think his fingers have any business roaming. Then the kissing ends as Jesse apologizes for insulting me, even though insulted is the last thing I feel, something I’ve made as clear to him as I can, to no apparent avail.
    But that’s what I get for falling in love with a guy who was born back when men still treated women as if they were dainty breakable figurines instead of flesh and blood. I’ve tried to explain to him that things are different now, but he remains stubbornly convinced that everything below the neck is off-limits until the honeymoon….
    Except, of course, when we’re kissing, like now, and he happens, in the heat of the moment, to forget he’s a nineteenth-century gentleman.
    I felt his hand move along the waistband of my jeans as we kissed. Our tongues entwined, and I knew it was only a matter of time until that hand slipped beneath my sweater and up toward my bra. I uttered a giddy prayer of thanks that I’d worn the front-closing one. Then, my eyes closed, I did a little exploration of my own, running my palms along the hard wall of muscles I could feel through the cotton of his shirt…
    …until Jesse’s fingers, instead of dipping inside my 34 B, seized my hand in a grip of iron.
    “Susannah.” He was breathing hard and the word came out sounding a little ragged as he rested his forehead against mine.
    “Jesse.” I wasn’t breathing too evenly myself.
    “I think you’d better go now.”
    How had I known he was going to say that?
    It occurred to me that we would be able to do this—kiss like this, I mean—a lot more often and more conveniently if Jesse would get over the absurd idea that he has to stay with Father Dominic, now that we are, for want of a better word, an item. It was my bedroom, after all, that he’d been murdered in, way back when. Shouldn’t it be my bedroom he continues to haunt?
    I didn’t couch it in those terms, though, since I knew Jesse, who’s an old-fashioned guy, doesn’t exactly approve of couples living together before wedlock. I also put resolutely from my mind the warning Father Dominic had given me, just before he’d left for San Francisco, about not giving into temptation where Jesse is concerned. It’s all very well for Father D. to talk. He’s a priest. He has no idea what it’s like to be a red-blooded teenage mediator. Of the female variety.
    “Jesse,” I said, still a little breathless from all the kissing, “I can’t help thinking… well, this thing with Paul.