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“Still. The raccoons.”
She laughs as she passes a glass of wine to me. “I know. Yeah, there’s that. They do care about me and love me. I’m sorry if I made them come across as anything different. That would be doing them an injustice. They’re good parents. I guess maybe I’m just a tad bit put out about all the stuff that’s gone on lately. I’m sure they’ll find the time to come out here soon.”
“They’ll probably drive right by the place because they won’t even recognize it.” I get that out without a heady dose of protectiveness leaching into my voice. I think.
“Then they’ll scold me for relying on the kindness of strangers.”
I think here. Yes, before we eat, even if the food is getting cold. This is a good opportunity. Maybe the best I’m going to have. It’s a natural way to ease into the conversation about me being or having the potential to become more than a stranger.
My stomach flip flops, my palms get damp, and my heart kicks up a storm at the thought of asking her or even mentioning it. Maybe just leaning in and going for a kiss because I don’t think that could be misconstrued? If I go for the kiss option, though, I might combust because Victoria is hotter than a grilled cheese sandwich lying forgotten in a frying pan on a burner cranked up to the high setting.
But what if I do kiss her?
Would she smack me? Would it ruin dinner? Would she kiss me back? Would dinner be entirely forgotten? Okay, I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her seriously bad. I mean, kiss her good, but it’s the want I want, and I want it badly.
So I take a chance and lean to the side. Then lean in a little more. Victoria is holding a glass of wine, and the bottle is beside her. Her eyes are big and lush, big as a cow’s eyes, all soft and brown. I mean deer’s eyes. No, doe’s eyes. She’s looking at me like she knows what I’ve been debating about over here all by myself, and she’s not grossed out or giving me a pinched-up lemon face at the thought. That makes me brave. Brave enough to set my hand on her cheek and brave enough that I close my eyes and just freaking go for it.
I palm Victoria’s other cheek, taking her face in both my hands. Then, I lean in and crush my mouth to hers. It’s not a nice kiss. Not a hey, by the way, I happen to be a little bit into you, and I hope you feel the same kind of kiss. It’s a I’m going to die unless I kiss you, and if you don’t kiss me back, I might also die, but it will be a much slower, more painful death instead of burning to flames on the spot since I’m putting my entire heart and soul into this kiss because I’ve never felt like this before, and I can’t do anything less kind of a kiss.
I’m so scared she’s going to pull away and punch me in the balls. With the wine bottle. I’m so scared she’s going to ask me what the hell is wrong with me and that she’s not going to kiss me back.
But she does.
Hard. Hot. Instant. Aggressive. Eager. With moans, whimpers, a hand in my hair to grasp it in her fingers, and her body melting into mine.
Without the slightest hesitation.
CHAPTER 10
Victoria
Holy blazing balls, I’m kissing Atlas. Kissing him. The Atlas. Fallen from that place where Greek gods dwell, the weight of the world on his shoulders, god-man Atlas.
And I’m still holding my wine.
I realize I’m clutching it for dear life, but I need my other hand for better pursuits, so I toss it onto the grass. The fresh sod that was rolled out back here is more than plush enough to cushion its fall.
I don’t know why he’s choosing to kiss me when he can probably have his pick of the litter—god, what a horrible saying that is—but he is. Choosing me, kissing me. And oh my god, is he ever kissing me.
His lips are scalding, insistent, wild, and demanding. They make my head spin, invite me to sin, and are the softest, sexiest, most scrumptious body parts on the planet. I find myself leaning into the kiss and arching into Atlas. His hand brackets my face as he blisters my lips, then the other one lands on my shoulder and pulls me into him. He’s all warmth, which I feel from a few inches away, then my hands are on his chest, smoothing over the cotton of his T-shirt. Cotton happens to be my new favorite fabric, especially when it covers untold treasures of rock-hard pecs, abs, and other muscles that I don’t know the names of.
