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I feel his thumb on my chin, angling up my mouth to meet his. And then.
And then.
The softest, warmest press of lips. Dizziness erupts behind my eyes, not because of the searing, sharp surge of arousal I feel at the contact. But because that contact is tender. Careful.
Sweet.
The man with the black eye and rough hands is being sweet. With me.
Abel is not a careful man. The black eye is proof of that. So why be careful now?
I don’t have time to ponder that question because he moves his lips, exerting gentle pressure on my own. He tastes good, like the mint chocolate cookie gelato we split for dessert, and he feels even better.
I love the way he savors me slowly, opening his mouth to taste my bottom lip. He draws that lip between his teeth, giving it an easy suck before releasing it.
I let out a shuddering breath, which Abel captures in a new kiss. One that’s still gentle but a little more insistent. He turns his head so he can lick into my mouth, and I rise onto my tiptoes in a bid for more.
Whatever this is, whatever Abel’s doing or not doing, I want more of it.
Arousal thunders through me as my head floats right off my shoulders. I lose myself in the slick glide of his tongue. The patience of his caresses. He lazily tilts his head again, and again, nudging my nose with his to guide me along.
A sobering thought materializes out of my heartbeat-heavy haze. Abel can be patient because he’s not kissing the person he’s crushed on for over a decade. The blaring pulse between my thighs—he doesn’t feel that.
He doesn’t want me like that, which hurts. And yet I find myself wanting to keep kissing himbecauseit hurts.
If I kiss him long enough, maybe he’ll feel something.
If I kiss him well enough, maybe he’ll finally want me.
Jesus, even when I’m being kissed senseless, my inner people pleaser barges her way to the forefront. I’m so sick of it. Of feeling like the problem is me.
Abel’s tongue tangles with mine before he pulls back to feather his lips over the corner of my mouth.
Then it’s over. I’m toppled by a wave of disappointment. I was wrong. I have the power to stop Abel. But I can’t make him keep going.
I open my eyes and Abel is there. Black gaze. Nostrils flaring.His shoulders rise and fall, chest barreling out against my breasts.
I frown. He’s still pissed about Brian. I get it. Even though I don’t get why he’sthispissed. So what if a random guy I’m into isn’t into me? I feel like Abel is taking my rejection personally.
I move my hand to his chest. Try to ignore the way my stomach clenches at how hard he is here. He’s a brick wall. One I have no business banging my head against.
Glancing over his shoulder, I see Brian staring at us. His expression is murderous. A flare of satisfaction goes up inside my chest.
At least there’s that.
“Mission accomplished.” I lick my lips in a failed bid to erase Abel’s taste. “Let’s. We should. Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
Abel grabs my hand and we walk to the golf cart in the weirdest, most alive silence I’ve ever experienced. Are we jubilant because our ruse was a success? Or are we anxious about the possibility that someone is already calling my brother to tell him they saw us?
Do we laugh at the ridiculous pretend kiss we shared?
But that pretend kiss actually happened. Does that make it real? Because the things it made me feel—they’re definitely real, and they’re definitely still alive, a stream of hot lava coursing up my spine and neck. Turning my head into an erupting volcano of want, weariness, and the strange need to weep.
What a freakingdisaster.
We’re quiet for the first minute or two of the ride. Abel isn’t touching me anymore, even though my entire being silently begs him to put his hands on me again.
The silence becomes excruciating.
