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I can’t even feel my headache anymore.
The reporters? Completely forgotten.
There’s just me, just August, just this moment.
The breathless magic minute when his tongue parts my lips, hungry and claiming and teasing.
His kiss captures me so intensely I rise up on my toes with a sharp shock that starts at my lips and plunges down through my heart, through my stomach, to right between my legs, where it curls up there in a little pool of sharp heat.
Holy hell.
I’ve had boyfriends tease me with lips and tongue to take me to the brink, but it always fell just a little flat. It felt too contrived, too awkward.
But August takes me there with one kiss.
He tastes like clove smoke, though I’ve never seen him with a cigarette.
I can’t feel anything but the space between us, the charged air between our bodies compressed and superheated until it slips under my dress and touches me like his tongue flowing over my naked skin, peaking my nipples, sliding between my legs to lick and tease and own.
I’ve never done drugs, but kissing August feels like a hit.
Everything bursts into vivid Technicolor sensation.
I can’t help myself.
I part my lips and clutch at him, lean into him, begging him for more.
No matter how gently he kisses me, there’s nothing soft about this.
There’s a secret sensuality lingering, something that makes it dirty and needy and perfectly hot.
God help me, I want more.
I don’t want to stop.
If we do, I’ll go crashing back to reality, where I’m dizzy and sick while dozens of bystanders stare at us like we’re zoo animals. Living reminders that I’m only doing this for his image.
Not because he wants me.
That thought isn’t enough to smother this feeling, though.
It’s like August could crawl inside me, deep in the darkest part of me, and ignite me from within so I burn in waves that pulse out through my whole body.
There’s so much promise in such a barely there kiss that I can hardly hold back a moan, a sigh, a wanting whisper of his name.
But I can’t.
Not with everyone watching.
Not when, to them, he’s just comforting his distraught fiancée. Not when—
“Eleanor! Hey, Elle!”
I snap back from August, shock ripping through me. It’s only been seconds, but I feel like we were locked together for hours, until someone called out my name. Our eyes lock in a hard, intense look before I turn toward the sound of my name without thinking.
Just in time for another atomic flash to melt my eyes.
Pain uppercuts me like it never left, driving an iron spike between my eyes.
