“Hi.”
“This is very—”
I kiss her.
Not soft. Not careful. This is a kiss that’s been building for days. Weeks. Months.Years. My hand is in her hair, tilting her head back, swallowing the sound she makes when I press closer.
She tastes like champagne and bad decisions.
Perfect.
There’s been no one in so long that I should be out of practice. I’m not. Because this is Poppy and it’s perfect.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me down, and hell. The little noise she makes when I bite her bottom lip. The way her body arches into mine.
“Fuck,” I mutter against her mouth.
“Yeah.”
I kiss her again. Harder. Tongue sliding against hers, and she gives as good as she gets. Nips at my lip. Nails dragging down my chest through the shirt.
My hips pin hers to the wall and she gasps. Can she feel how hard I am through the suit pants? She has to. Nothing I can do about that.
“Dean—” she gasps.
“I know.” I trail kisses down her throat. Find that spot behind her ear that makes her shiver. “I know.”
“We can’t—”
“We’re not.” Another kiss. “Just this.”
Her leg hooks around mine. Dress riding up. My hand finds her hip, squeezes.
“This is insane,” she pants.
“Yep.”
“We barely know each other.”
This isn’t part of the plan. But maybe—just maybe—I’m tired of plans.
Maybe I want reckless. Messy. Her.
“Maybe.” I pull back. Look at her. Hair wrecked, lips swollen, eyes wild.
She laughs. Low and breathless.
I press closer. Let her feel exactly what she does to me. “You really have to go tomorrow?”
A warm breath punches out of her and something flickers across her face. “That’s the plan.”
Right. The plan. Italy. Her real life that doesn’t include me.
“When’s your flight?”
“Two.”
I check my watch. Fourteen hours.
