Page 48 of Clinically Awkward

“I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman here.”

“What if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?”

His hand tightened on mine. “Then we’re both in trouble.”

“Maybe I like trouble.”

He laughed, but it sounded strained. “That’s the tequila talking.”

“The tequila is helping me say what I’ve been thinking for weeks.”

His eyes widened. “Weeks?”

“Weeks,” I confirmed. And then I stopped thinking entirely. I looked at him. Really looked at him. At the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I want to kiss him. Not a friendly kiss. Not a polite kiss. A real kiss. The kind of kiss that meant something. The kind of kiss that changed things. And before I could talk myself out of it, before the rational part of my brain could remind me of all the reasons this was a terrible idea, I leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was hungry and desperate and a little clumsy because we were both drunk and the angle was wrong at first. I had to adjust, tilting my head, and then my mouth was on his, my tongue sliding past his lips, tasting tequila and salt and something uniquely him. For half a second, he froze, and I thought, Oh God, I’ve made a terrible mistake.

But then his hands were in my hair, pulling me closer, and he was kissing me back with the same desperate hunger, and I stopped thinking entirely. His mouth was hot. Demanding. His tongue tangled with mine, and I made a sound I didn’t recognize. Something between a gasp and a moan.

He swallowed it and deepened the kiss, his hands sliding from my hair to my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I went willingly, straddling him, my thighs on either side of his hips, and immediately felt the hard length of his dick pressing against me through his sweatpants.

Oh.

Oh.

I rocked against him experimentally, and he groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us. “Fuck,” he breathed against my lips.

I did it again, grinding down, as his hands tightened on my waist, fingers digging into my skin through my shirt. “Viv,” he said, voice rough.

“Don’t,” I murmured. “Don’t think. Don’t talk. Just—” I kissed him again, harder this time, more demanding, and his hands slid under my shirt, fingers splaying across my bare skin. I gasped at the contact. His hands were warm, slightly rough, and they felt perfect. I pulled back just long enough to yank my shirt over my head. I fumbled with it, got my arm stuck for a second, and we both laughed, breathless, giddy laughter, before I finally got it off and tossed it somewhere behind me.

Quinton’s eyes went dark as he stared at me. At my black lace bra, at the curve of my breasts, at the rapid rise and fall of my chest. “Jesus,” he whispered. Then his mouth was on my neck, kissing, sucking, teeth grazing my skin, and I arched into him, my hands fisting in his hair.

“Quinton.”

“Tell me to stop,” he said against my throat, words slightly slurred. “Tell me this is a bad idea and I’ll stop.”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

He pulled back and looked at me. His eyes were wild, pupils blown. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You have a boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“This is⁠—”

“I know.”

“We work together.”

“I know.”

“Viv—”