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I scoot forward a few more inches and smile. It’s been so long since I’ve flirted this way, since someone stirred my interest enough to play like this.Addictive. The word flashes through my mind again. I push it away.
“So how’s your goodnight game?”
“My . . . goodnight game?”
“Right. Your goodnight game. Can you deliver a goodnight kiss that will make her beg you to stay?” I am definitely going on someone’s naughty list as I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down. His swallow is almost a gulp.
“I . . . yes. I can do that.”
I lean forward, my eyes soft and concerned. “Are you sure? Because you’ll want to be good enough that she wants to invite you inside, but you, of course, won’t go.”
“Right.” He swallows again, his eyes on my mouth now. “Why won’t I?”
“Any theater kid could tell you the answer to that,” I say, leaning forward. At this point, we’re barely a foot apart, and I reach out to let my fingers graze the button placket on his shirt. “Always leave them wanting more.”
I walk my fingers down the buttons and let my hand fall away before leaning back as if I’d been up to nothing at all. “See how well that works?”
“No.”
I meet his eyes in surprise.
His narrow slightly. “I’m not sure I understand how this works at all. In fact, I’m full of self-doubt.” And yet he sounds the most sure of himself he’s been since he walked in.
“You’ll be fine,” I say, suddenly feeling a flicker of nerves along my spine.
“No, you’re right. It’s really important for me to get that moment right. Nail it, let’s say.”
“Let’s.” I stare at him in open fascination. Something subtle has shifted about him, but whatever it is, it has also shifted the balance of power between us. Maybe a firmer set to his jaw? Or a glint in his eye? I can’t stop looking at him.
“I’m going to need coaching.”
It’s my turn to swallow hard. “Coaching?”
“Coaching.” He leans toward me, closing the distance again, lifting his hand and settling it on the curve between my shoulder and neck. “Like, for example, is this a good opening move?”
My fingers drift up to touch his warm hand. “Yes, that’s a good opening.”
“Then next I’m thinking maybe something like this.” He exerts the lightest pressure with his fingers against the back of my neck and draws me toward him with no effort until his mouth is by my cheek. “What do you think?” he says, his words barely a whisper that tickles my skin.
I give a small shiver. “That’s a good second move. Then what?”
It’s a dangerous question. He doesn’t move for three full seconds, and my heart pounds fast enough to fill the silence with several beats as I wait for his answer.
But instead of words, he draws back, his lips tracing along my skin until his mouth meets mine and brushes across it.
It’s a feather-light touch that burns.
“Oh.” I say it so softly, and it’s swallowed up by his next breath. There is a split second where I realize now is when I back away.
Except I don’t.
This time when he brings his mouth to mine, I kiss him back, my hand coming up to cup his jaw and let my thumb run over the scruff I’ve been dying to feel.
It’s another soft kiss until it isn’t, until lips aren’t enough, and his tongue brushes against mine in an exploration that steals the shallow breath I have left. He tastes like he smells, warm, rich, and complicated. Layers of sensation.
I make a sound—a squeak, maybe, or a whimper, but it’s swallowed up in the rough groan that rumbles from him, a sound of want. Of need. I feel it all the way to my core.
This was such a stupid idea, like shooting off bottle rockets in a drought-dry field. The explosions of sensation are that intense, and the heat spreads that fast.
