He dipped down, and I closed my eyes, already lifting to meet him halfway.

His lips touched mine at the same time the doorbell rang.

“Fuck.” He pulled back, panting a little.

He deposited me gently onto the couch and then headed for the door.

I heard it open, and a second later, “Thanks.”

The door slammed shut, and Ryan hurried back downstairs. He strode into the room, deposited the pizza on one of the other chairs, and lifted me once again. He sat and pulled me to straddle him. I smiled, feeling lazy and sensual as I looped my arms around his neck. My hands slid into his hair, grabbing fistfuls as I bent down to him. He tugged me the last inch separating us.

A thrill burned in me as I felt him plastered against every part of me.

God.

We’d kissed for the first time Saturday night. That was two days ago. He’d come over, and we’d fooled around more on Sunday and again that night, but those times were nothing compared to how this made me feel.

I was breathless as his mouth opened over mine, as I felt his tongue slide inside. His hand went to my waist and slid underneath my shirt. He paused there, waiting for me to let him know what was okay and what was not. It’d been the same way Sunday night. He’d asked before touching me then, and he was asking again. And like that night, I answered by touching him the way I wanted to be touched. My hand went under his shirt and slid up his torso, over his stomach muscles and chest as I pushed his shirt the rest of the way.

I began inching up my own shirt.

He pulled back. “Are you sure?”

I nodded, my mouth finding his again. I couldn’t stop touching him, kissing him, tasting him. My shirt went up, and his hands were on my bare stomach, smoothing to my back, then down to my ass as he anchored me more firmly against him. I couldn’t get enough.

I wanted more of him, more of this.

I wanted anything that helped me forget I was starting to feel like a ghost.

We kept kissing long past when the pizza had gone cold.

The sound of the garage woke me up.

The room was dark. The big screen was off, and an arm curled around me.

Ryan had fallen asleep behind me. We were tangled up together on the couch in the theater room.

I bolted upright. “Shit!” I shook Ryan’s shoulder, but his eyes had opened as soon as I moved.

“Wha—”

We both heard the garage door going back down.

He repeated my sentiment, “Shit.”

Groaning, he swung around from behind me, pulling his shirt on. I grabbed for my shirt and then looked down. Yes, my pants were fine. I glanced at his; they weren’t. He was searching around, his hand raking through his hair.

I pointed. “Crotch.”

“Huh?” He looked down, another curse leaving him. He quickly buttoned his jeans.

We hadn’t had sex, but we went a little further than last night. Grinding 101. I’d definitely felt him against me, and I’d definitely strained to get closer to him, which was a reality that was hitting me like a sledgehammer, I was glad that was all we’d done.

“What if the school called them already?”

He grabbed for his phone, scrolling through his messages. “Tell them the truth. You thought you could handle it, and then you couldn’t. You lost your sister, Mac. Your parents should be sympathetic to that.”

He was right. I felt a little better, the old Mackenzie’s guilt lessening over skipping half a day.

They would come inside. I could hear my parents talking to each other.

They would call my name.

When I didn’t answer, they would go in search of me.

I wouldn’t be in my room, so they’d call again.

They would come down because this was the obvious place I’d be. If I wasn’t in my room or in the living room, then check the theater room.

So, I waited, my heart pounding against my chest, listening . . .

The fridge opened. I heard glasses clinking. My dad walked to his office.

The microwave started in the kitchen.

Plates clanked as someone pulled them out of the cabinet.

And then . . . nothing.

They never called for me. They never went up to my room to see if I was in there. My mom went down the hallway to their bedroom. The microwave beeped and then the oven. My dad walked from his office back to the kitchen.

“Food’s done,” he called.

My mom’s soft tread came back to the kitchen.

Chairs were pulled out, moving against the floor.

I heard utensils hitting the plates, scraping.

I couldn’t move.

Ryan’s phone was flashing as texts came in, but he silenced it. Wait—I grabbed for my phone. I’d put it on silent too. There’d be a text from my parents, something to check in with me. They would’ve asked where I was, how school was, told me they were eating without me. They probably thought I was with friends. But when I looked?