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Of my kisses.

And I like it.

Love it.

His all-encompassing want and the feel of him hardening beneath me. I wiggle to get more comfortable, and he simply lifts me up, repositioning me so my legs are on either side of him. He breathes hard, the tip of his nose skimming along my cheekbone. “Better?”

I can only manage a soft, “Mm-hmm,” before he tugs me to him again.

That simmering volcano? It’s overflowing now. Passion and desire all focused on me. My skin goes hot all over. Or maybe it’s the scorched path his hands leave when he glides them underneath my shirt and up my back, his fingernails rasping along my spine, and I’ve never felt anything so wonderful.

“Do that again,” I tell him, and he obliges me, sending goose bumps racing all over my body. My skin pricks with heat, but instead of melting, I crystallize. All of my senses heighten. Like I can taste his emotion and visualize his scent. My nipples are so tight, they’re painful, and the only thing I can do is loop my arms around Austin’s neck, aligning myself with him so there is no space between us, hoping the slight rubbing of his chest against mine will help.

It doesn’t.

Makes it worse, and I let a whine slip out.

“You okay?” he checks in, but I shake my head.

I’m dizzy.

Clammy.

“Need more.” My voice sounds faraway to my ears, and he glances around before nodding once, like he’s coming back into awareness himself.

He takes a breath and then another. “I need a second. I’ll call a car.”

I don’t want to let go of him, so I merely back away a few inches, allowing the smallest amount of space possible between us, and he cracks a smile, one hand rubbing circles on the skin of my back, making his arc bigger with each pass until my vest is pushed out of the way and the hem of my T-shirt lifts, exposing the bottom of my breasts.

His attention stays there as he says, “I can give you more. I can give you everything, just stay at my place.”

I know he means it in the immediate, stay at his place and we can see where this goes physically, but my heart wants him to mean it for the future.

Stay at his place, and he will give me everything for the future.

“You have a few hours, right?” he asks, and my heart plummets, but I nod anyway.

“Until I have to pick Noah up from school.”

He licks his lips, red in the thick of his dark beard. His hair is a mess from my fingers, and I comb it down as he retrieves his phone from his pocket. As he scrolls, I let my fingertips glide over his throat, over the bump of his Adam’s apple and the veins running along the sides, the dip of his collarbone when I tug at his T-shirt, and he grunts out a warning. “We’ll be home soon. You need to stop until then.”

He rolls his hips, making his point with the erection that slots between my legs. When I lean forward, testing what it feels like to rub my overly sensitive sex along it, his jaw ticks.

“I mean it, Millie. I’m barely hanging on here. In the fucking middle of the children’s area with an owl staring at me.”

I turn over my shoulder, finding that there is indeed a taxidermied white owl staring down its beak at us. I break into a laugh, tucking my face against his neck, and he wraps a protective arm around me, saying, “Car will be here in four minutes.”

But he doesn’t move. Just holds me against him, running his hands up and down my back, breathes evenly against my ear, and with my hands trapped between us, against his chest, I feel his heart rate normalize.

Eventually, after his body has seemed to cooperate, he helps me to stand, making sure my feet are on the floor and I’m steady, before he does. Then he takes my hand in his to make our way back to the lobby. He thanks the director of the museum, and I shake her hand as well, although he tugs at me when I don’t stop effusively praising her.

“Right, thank you,” I say with a laugh, practically jogging to keep up with him as he leads me to the Lexus waiting for us at the curb. In the back seat, he holds me close, his hand on my thigh, even as he stares straight ahead. Like he’s afraid to look at me.

I stare at his profile, a crude and rugged beauty that should not be beautiful but is. His nose is long with a bump in the middle, and he’s always flaring his nostrils, angry about something or other. His skin is uneven, mostly golden tan but with patches of red from the sun. His hair is overly long, and he could probably put it in a tiny ponytail if he wanted, but he usually just runs his hands through it after a shower and calls it a day. Though, I assume he spends more time on his beard since he keeps it trimmed and not scraggly, unlike the Thunder center fielder, who looks like a pirate with how long it is. He sometimes even braids it.

But Austin’s beard is surprisingly soft, and I impulsively drag my fingers over it now. He turns to me, catching my hand.

“Sorry. I⁠—”