“Thunder,” he mirrors.
With a fork, he scoops a cheesecake and brings it to my mouth.
My breath stutters. His expression slides into hungry amusement, like I’ve just offered myself up as dessert.
“Open up.” It’s a honey-covered command, and my ovaries believe he’s talking to my legs.
I stifle a whimper and obey.
The mango hits my tongue. It’s bright, cold, indecently smooth. A moan slips out before I can stop it.
Liam’s gaze darkens.
I’m marginally aware we’re in a public place, but all the chatter and clutter fall away as the man I try to avoid feeds me small morsels like I’m a child.
But there is nothing childish about the heat consuming us. This game is all molten lava and danger. A taste of pecans.
My body’s reactions are heat and concern. A taste of meringue.
It’s all wrong, and yet so fucking inevitable. A taste of caramel.
A crumb sticks to the corner of my lip, and I try to swipe it with my tongue.
Liam reaches to wipe it, and the tip of my tongue grazes the pad of his finger. The contact is a lightning strike straight to my core.
My heart hammers in my chest. He must smell my arousal. I certainly see his.
“What are we doing?” I whisper.
“I’m making sure you don’t collapse in the middle of the competition.” He puts a chocolate truffle into my mouth, and I close my lips around his fingers.
He swallows. His heated gaze slides to my mouth.
I dig my nails into his thigh. To find purchase. Sanity. A way out.
A pointless endeavor.
“If it was up to me, Thunder”—he runs his thumb across my lower lip, smearing the truffle filling—“we would be paying the bill and going over to my room.”
Yes, please.“That’s a terrible idea.” My pulse kicks, hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
I lick the sweetness from my lips, enjoying how his breath stutters on a soft groan.
“The worst,” he murmurs, his eyes still on my mouth. I want his lips there. Goddammit.
“Your room…”Don’t finish that sentence.“No way I would risk someone seeing us.”
Am I really planning thewhere? Am I past theifalready?
“I’m sure there is a broom closet we can find here.”
The casual suggestion shouldn’t excite me. It really shouldn’t. But when it comes to should and this man, I don’t recognize myself.
“Charming,” I scoff. “As you said, it’s the worst idea.” My protest is already irrelevant, and we both know it.
He runs his hand up my thigh, small explosions detonating throughout my core. “Maybe we can pretend we are someone else, Thunder.”
The idea should awaken my last shred of responsibility or propriety. It does the opposite. “Just for tonight?”
