Page 296 of A Taste of Vanilla

His mouth comes down on mine with weeks of wanting, and I open for him immediately. This isn’t that first night in the bar. This isn’t grief or panic or rebellion. This is what happens when you open yourself to someone completely.

He kisses me like he is still asking and already starving. One hand cups the back of my head, fingers tight in my hair, while the other drags down my side, over my ribs, waist, and hip, learning the shape of me through the dress. My hands go to his shirt, and I moan.

His mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck, his teeth scraping lightly over the spot beneath my ear. My hips jerk against him, and his hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me harder into him. I feel him through his jeans, thick and hot against my stomach, and the knowledge of what’s waiting—what his piercing will feel like—makes my entire body ache.

“You feel that?” he asks, his voice low against my skin.

“Yeah,” I breathe out.

“That’s what sitting beside you at the bar did to me.”

I laugh breathlessly. “I ate fries.”

“You wore this dress and licked salt off your thumb with the look of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”

“I did know,” I admit while his hands squeeze my ass.

His teeth close gently on my neck.

“Then take responsibility.”

Oh.

Well.

I may be thinking about that line for the rest of my life. While I’m banking. Maybe even while at the dentist.

Definitely every time I see a French fry.

I open my mouth to deliver something clever. Something sharp enough to make it seem like my entire body hasn’t just surrendered to him.

But nothing comes out.

His mouth curves against my skin. “No argument?”

“I’m choosing silence as a tactical response.”

“Liar.”

His hand slides from my thigh to my waist, fingers spreading wide and warm over the curve of me. He pulls back just enough to look at my face, and whatever humor was there is gone.

It makes the little entryway of my place feel smaller. Warmer.

Behind us, the door is locked. Warren glances up the stairs, then back at me.

His hands are under my thighs before I can process what’s happening. He lifts me so easily my gasp gets lost against his mouth. My arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, my legs wrapping around his waist as he turns us toward the stairs.

The first step presses him hard against me.

The second steals the air out of my lungs.

By the third, I have one hand in his hair and the other gripping the back of his neck like gravity has become a rumor and Warren King is the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth.

I bite the side of his neck, and his step stutters.

He pauses halfway up the stairs, one hand tangling in my hair and pulling down.

It hurts so good.