Page 71 of Level Up for Love

His fingers flex, and then he settles his thumb and forefinger on either side of my chin.

I suck in a small breath. Hold it.

“Please.”

The word is barely exhaled from Wesley’s lips, yet it comes out ragged with need, his breath hot against my cheek.

I dip my head in a tiny, shallow nod.

We both make the decision at the same time. Our lips meet, and I swear the darkness fills with stars.

Wesley steps forward firmly, guiding me back until the base of my spine presses into the shelf behind me. He slides the hand circling my jaw back into my hair, biting back a groan against my mouth as he tangles his fingers in my curls. Heat spikes in my chest as want pools low in my stomach, and I gasp at the intensity of it. In a rush, I fist my hands in the thick knit of his sweater and glide my tongue against his, drawing him farther down. We communicate without words, but it goes as all our conversations do: we interrupt each other constantly, like we’re racing to finish our sentences, to make ourselves heard before reality hits and one of us changes the subject.

Wesley knocks his shin loudly on the shelf, and when he parts my knees with his thigh, I feel him firm against my leg. I bite back a moan as I rock my hips forward along his, arching my back against the shelf. I take his full lower lip between my teeth and bite, and he hisses into my mouth and digs his fingernails into the skin along my ribs.

“Wes,” I say against the corner of his lips.

“Mm?”

“Could I—” I’m sliding my fingertips under the hem of his sweater when I hear the familiar chorus of screeching eagles.

Something about Colin’s unmistakable laugh, even as it echoes all the way from upstairs, sends me hurtling back down to earth—and at that exact moment, the light above us shudders back to life. My mouth is stuck open as I flick my gaze from the shelves to the flickering bulb, then to Wesley’s disheveled golden hair and his dumbstruck grin.

At my stunned expression, his smile drops. As if he were handling a skittish animal, he slowly extends his hand toward me, setting it gently on my elbow. “Reagan,” he says carefully, “don’t—”

“I should go.”

“Listen—”

There’s really no good way to put it: I flee.