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This is exactly what I’m talking about. He’s moved so that he is standing only inches away from me. I know alarm bells should be sounding telling me to back away from him, but I am inexplicably compelled to move closer.
“Because they’re things people are supposed to feel when they care about someone. I don’t even know you,” I explain.
His hands cradle my head, his fingers latching onto the back of my hair and forcing me to look up at him. He runs the tip of his nose along my jaw, across my cheek, then to my ear. I tip my head to the side and suck in a breath.
A familiar numbness washes over me, and I realize I’m drunk on him. This is exactly the reason I needed to stay away. It won’t take much for me to become as addicted to this feeling, addicted to him, as I am to my vodka and wine.
He moves his mouth, pressing his lips against mine, gently at first, making sure I’m not going to stop him. Very gentleman-like, even though we both know he is no gentleman. I close my eyes and savor the feel of him, strong hands holding me steady, soft lips pressed against mine, his scent, unmistakable and intoxicating, wrapping around me like a familiar blanket. My lips part, inviting him in, and to my delight he accepts. Then, as if my approval were all he was waiting on, the kiss intensifies. He tightens his fingers in my hair, tilting my head back as my hands latch onto his biceps. It’s greedy and possessive, like he’d been holding onto his willpower for too long, and now there’s no going back. He presses his long, hard body against me, and I moan in his mouth. His tongue, his lips, his hands in my hair, it’s all a glorious and heady combination like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It doesn’t matter that I can’t breathe or that my hands are gripping his arms so tightly I’m losing circulation in my fingertips. Raw passion. That’s what this is. And when he finally pulls his mouth from mine, his teeth catching my bottom lip as he does, I almost feel desolate, empty. I open my eyes long enough to find his, dark and hungry, staring back at me.
“Do that again,” I plead in small, breathless syllables.
“Do what again?”
“Kiss me like I’m not broken.”
And he does.
After the second kiss, I’ve forgotten why I’m here in the first place. He slowly removes his hands from my hair and takes a step back.
I am utterly spellbound.
“Go home, Makenna,” he says, callous and frigid, a complete contradiction to the man I shared a kiss with just a few seconds ago.
“Are you kidding me?”
He steps past me and opens his office door. I exhale a frustrated huff as I breeze past him and into the hallway. The moment he unlocks the front door and lets me exit, I swear I hear him mutter, “Now you have someone else to be angry with.”
He was right. When I get home, I don’t even think about being angry with Reid. Instead, I spend most of the night tossing and turning, and tracing my fingertips over my lips, over the tiny mark Cal left there with his teeth and the seal of possession that lingers from his kiss.
