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Running the pad of my thumb over her bottom lip, I stare, transfixed, when her tongue darts out to trace the same path.
“This isn't a good idea,” she whispers.
“Probably not,” I agree.
“But you're going to kiss me anyway.”
It's not a question. It's a statement.
Fact.
One I prove to her by sliding my hand around to the back of her head and finally covering her mouth with my own.
Oh my god,he’s kissing me.
He’s actually, finally kissing me.
Six years I’ve been waiting to feel his lips on mine again. Six years I’ve spent trying to remember the taste of him and coming up short.
He cups the back of my head with one hand and cradles my face with the other. His lips, so shockingly soft it makes me dizzy, move over mine, gentle at first and then rougher as his control gives over to ferocious desire.
The hand in my hair tightens, pulling tightly and tipping my head back. The sharp sting of it makes me gasp, which only elicits a dark smirk from him that I feel against my lips.
The man is cocky, even when he's kissing.
I like it, though.
No, Iloveit.
His casual arrogance, his smugness, the way he knows exactly what every touch and slide of his tongue is doing to me, only adds to the burning lust sweeping through my veins.
My hands find their way to his arms, stroking and kneading at the muscles he didn't have when he was eighteen. They flex under my touch and I smile inwardly, knowing it is for my benefit.
It's funny that this kiss tells me more about who he is now than any conversation we've had in the week or so that I've been home. He's still the playful, roguish boy he once was, only buried under layers of resentment and the kind of cynicism that comes with growing up.
It makes me happy to know the boy I fell in love with is still in there. The world deserves to know that side of him even if I don't get to anymore.
My legs are wrapped around his waist, clinging to his body as he slams me against the wall. I have no recollection of him even picking me up, but I don't care. Not when his lips leave mine for a few torturous seconds to press hot kisses down my neck. Or even when they find their way back to my mouth, his tongue slipping back to where it belongs.
God, he tastes incredible. Like whiskey and tobacco andhome.
No man has ever come close to this, to shattering me from just a kiss. His warm hands slide underneath my camisole to stroke the burning skin of my waist, heat against heat, and I wonder if he feels it too. This thing that's happening. The fire. The inconceivable, cosmic connection of souls. It's a force so powerful it could turn me to stardust.
I'd let it too.
I'd let the gravity of this moment tear me apart like a dying star if only it meant he would keep kissing me forever.
But he doesn't.
As staggeringly as the kiss began, it ends.
I'm dropped onto trembling legs and left heaving heavy breaths against the wall as Cole stumbles away from me like I've burned him.
“Fuck!” he yells, picking up a pillow from the couch and hurling it across the room. “Fuck. We can't do this.”
But I can't speak.
I'm still reeling from the burn of his lips and the coldness I feel now that they're no longer pressed against mine.
