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What is it about this man?
He kisses me again and again, and my eyes close against my will.
Focus.
“Henley.” I smile shyly as I break out of his grip. “We are in a crowded restaurant.”
“I don’t give a fuck where we are. I want to kiss you.”
“And you will.” I take his hand in mine and hold it against my other hand, resting on his thick quad muscle. “Later.” I smile.
He exhales heavily. “I haven’t seen you all week.”
He missed me.
“I know,” I reply as if I don’t care.
“What have you been doing all week?” he asks as he sips his champagne.
Missing you.
“Working, painting.”
“Did Mason help you?”
“No.”
“What about the other fucking idiot?”
I giggle. “You mean my interior designer, the one you’re jealous of, Joel?”
“I am not jealous of Joel,” he fires back. “He’s . . .” He pauses as if trying to choose his words carefully.
I cut in. “Touching your things.”
He smirks at my analogy. “Yes.”
“So I’m your thing now?”
His dark eyes drop to my lips. “Yes.”
The air crackles between us as we stare at each other.
You are most definitely my thing.
He grabs my face and kisses me again, his tongue swiping through my open lips, and I feel it between my legs.
I remember where we are and pull out of his kiss. “Why is it that whenever we are together, we act like horny teenagers?”
“Because you make me fucking horny, that’s why.”
I smile and pick up my champagne glass. “Can we . . .” I pause.
“Can we what?”
“Can we just have a normal date where we aren’t trying to fuck each other at the table?”
“But I do want to fuck you on the table?”
