Page 163 of Claimed At First Sight

When my tongue traces her lips, she opens, a moan escaping her as I delve inside. My hand tangles in her hair, angling her head exactly where I want it.

Her tongue responds, growing bolder. Heat pools low in my abdomen, and the restraint I’ve spent years cultivating suddenly feels inadequate.

I graze her bottom lip with my teeth, and she melts into me.

The gentle jolt beneath us barely registers. It isn’t until a polite knock sounds against the glass that reality finally intrudes.

I lift my head reluctantly.

The attendant stands outside with one hand resting against the gondola door.

“Another round?” he asks with a grin.

Neither of us answers.

Mia blinks first and scrambles off my lap so quickly she nearly loses her footing.

“No,” she blurts, refusing to look at either of us. “Definitely not.”

I step out after her, my attention never leaving the woman hastily winding her scarf around her neck as though several layers of wool might somehow hide what just happened.

She had wanted to convince both of us that another man’s kiss had replaced mine. Judging by the way she can’t meet my eyes, I suspect she no longer believes that.

Whatever patience I’d intended to exercise with Mia agreeing to marry me has just become infinitely harder.

Chapter Forty-Five

Mialina

Merda.

What have I done?

I kissed Maximo.

Again.

Worse, I got so lost in him that I hadn’t even noticed the Ferris wheel had completed another full rotation.

An icy blast of wind and snow blows across the platform as I hurry toward the stairs, our security detail immediately falling into step around us.

I don’t have to look at Maximo to know he’s beside me.

I can’t. Not after what just happened.

The first time he’d kissed me, I’d at least been able to run away and hide. Here, not so much.

Maximo keeps pace effortlessly beside me, and before I can put even the smallest bit of distance between us, his hand settles against the small of my back, guiding me down the stairs.

The warmth of his palm seems to burn straight through my coat.

Dammit, this has to be my imagination. Surely, heat from a hand doesn’t go through layers of wool.

The temperature has dropped with the setting sun, the wind driving snowflakes across Navy Pier, yet I’m burning up. My heart refuses to slow, and I swear I must be sweating despite the freezing air.

My lips still tingle. I hate that I can still taste him.

This is a disaster.