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“Exactly.” Everything he’s doing right now is making electric currents charge through me.
He walks closer, leans into my ear, and whispers, “Me too.”
I get a dizzying rush of his smell, hints of orange and spice, and it’s all too familiar. That ache between my thighs returns, and I turn, slowly, dying to kiss him again, arealkiss, and I know I’m not going to be able to hold out much longer. My friends don’t call me the kissing bandit for nothing. I rub my nose up his cheek, and when I pull away, his eyes snag on mine.
“Being someone else gives us a break from having to live in our own skin.” His eyes stay locked on mine.
“Fine. You get me.” A breath flutters out.
“Oh, I get you.” His words are gravelly, and his eyes are dilated, but he doesn’t lean forward. Instead, he takes my hand and flicks his tongue along my wrist, just because he can.
He’s going to make me do it—kiss him first. That’s fine, I’m down. My fingers snake into his hair, then down his neck where I feel his pulse humming. I inch my mouth toward his, hovering just above his lips to see if I can get him to cave.
He doesn’t.
I skate my lips along his neck until his head lolls back. When I flick my tongue on his earlobe, just because I can, he groans. Then he pulls away and turns, and his mouth crashes into mine.
I win.
But do I? Because as he moves his tongue through my mouth, I tremble, aching for everything he has to give.
My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, and I arch my back to get closer. His hands slide around my waist, settling on the small of my back as he deepens the kiss.
Our tongues twist together, exploring each other’s mouths. Suddenly, all of my senses are on fire—the taste of him, the feel of his breath on mine; it’s overwhelming and intoxicating, and I never want it to stop.
He pulls away, just enough so that our noses brush against each other’s as we gasp for air. He’s still holding me in place with one hand as his other slides up my torso, tracing circles along my neck, then down until it comes to rest at the pocket of my jeans. Heat radiates from where his skin touches mine.
“Um, excuse me. Are you using this table?” a voice interrupts.
We pull away. “No, go ahead.” I fight the urge to wipe off my mouth like a horny teenager.
We can’t do anything more, not here.
By unspoken agreement, we head back to my room—or race, actually. In the hall, we’re kissing again, hands everywhere, and I can’t unlock the door with my old key without steady focus. I fumble with it—over and over. It’s even more challenging now that I’m a little tipsy.
“Wait.” Maddox puts his hand over mine. “Allow me?” I nod, and he manages to get my damn door open.
Inside, I rub my fingers up his chest, but he puts his hands over them and stops them. “Rook. You’re drunk.”
“Tipsy. Just tipsy.”
He shakes his head, sighing. “There’s a lot to unpack if we cross this line tonight. I don’t think we should do it if either of us has impaired judgment. Remember your ‘no sex’ rule? I don’t want you to regret this tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” I say, or more like beg. I rub a finger over his cheek.
He closes his eyes and takes it in, but then he shakes his head. “Not tonight. Not when you haven’t had time to think it through. When we do this, I want to be sure you won’t regret it.”
He saidwhen. And the care in his words sober me up a notch. With a moment’s distance from the fire-hot kissing, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Taking a long inhale, I say, “Fine,” as I blow out that breath. “I did say sex was off the table.”
“Yes, you did.”
Once we’re inside, he opens the door to his adjoining room. In my head, I’m begging him not to go—to rush back and take me right where I sit.
But as he passes through and his door closes, I say, “Oh. We have to get going early tomorrow.”
It swings back open a crack. “I’ll be here at six. Sunrise is at 6:18.”
“Wow. Okay.” He’s not messing around. And I’m out of ideas to keep him any longer.
