It was getting darker and darker outside. Conrad sighed and said, “I’d better get you back.”
I looked down at my watch. It was five o’clock. “Yeah … I guess we’d better go.”
Neither of us moved. He reached out and wound my hair around his fingers like a spool of yarn. “I love how soft your hair is,” he said.
“Thanks,” I whispered. I’d never thought of my hair as anything special. It was just hair. And it was brown, and brown wasn’t as special as blond or black or red. But the way he looked at it … at me. Like it held some kind of fascination for him, like he would never get tired of touching it.
We kissed again, but it was different than the night before. There was nothing slow or lazy about it. The way he looked at me—urgent, wanting me, needing me … it was like a drug. It was want-wa
