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“You’re not exactly old and decrepit, Lia. I doubt this will be your last wild thing,” he amended, and her smile widened, but the edges were tinged with sadness.
“I’m not known for my spontaneity, Brand. I think one per lifetime is my limit.”
“And yet this is the third—”
“No,” she interrupted quickly. “It’s one extended extemporaneous walk on the wild side.”
“I’ll help you,” he suddenly decided, not sure what the fuck he was promising but just hating to see such abject defeat in her normally sparkling eyes.
“What?”
“While we’re flinging, so to speak, I’ll help you find that guy.”
“That’s crazy. And also quite amoral. I won’t be dating men while we’re involved.”
“You can date them, just don’t sleep with them. When you find a guy you want to sleep with, we end our thing.”
“That’s too bizarre; I don’t like it.”
“It’ll be part of your new wild-woman persona. You can date one guy while sleeping with another.”
“It feels dishonest. Why are we discussing this? I came here for a fling and you’re—you’re . . .” A delicate frown settled between her brows as she tried to think of a way to describe what she was feeling. “You’re copblocking me.”
“What?” He blinked, not sure he’d heard her properly.
“You heard me,” she whispered angrily, and his lips quirked.
“No, sunshine, I’m not really sure I did.”
“I said you’re copblocking me.” Her cheeks were bright pink, and in that moment Sam watched his good intentions curl up and float away right before his eyes. The sexy, shy librarian was back, and he wanted her badly.
“And what does that mean, sunshine?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle, and she flushed as she struggled to frame a response.
“You know what it means, I just replaced the other word,” she confessed, and he grinned.
“Oh, you mean cock?” He bit back a laugh at her pained groan.
“Just stop doing it,” she admonished, and he nodded solemnly.
“No more cockblocking. Got it.” His eyes ran over her face, and he felt his lips stretch into a full smile. God, she was absolutely gorgeous. His breath hitched and he palmed her cheek with his good hand. “You’re sure about this, right? Because I don’t do regrets.”
Her breath shuddered from her chest and he recognized that she’d been holding it. Her lips parted and his eyes dropped to them—they looked full, juicy, and he wondered if she’d applied some of that gloss before knocking on his door. Applied it for him. He groaned as he understood that he could finally sample that bubblegum flavor. All it took to go from thought to action was a single breath before his lips were on hers. She sighed and moved closer and opened up for him. It was the only way he could think of to describe it—she just tilted back her head, softened her mouth, and let him in.
It was fucking fantastic. He couldn’t quite remember if the last time had been like this. He couldn’t remember if they’d kissed. This felt like a first kiss, and he couldn’t remember the last time a first kiss had held this kind of significance for him. It terrified him but at the same time made him want more . . . so much more.
He wanted to wrap her close, but the cast on his arm hampered him and he made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat as he lifted his mouth from hers. Her lips followed his, soft, lush, and completely ravished. They still wanted more and they pouted when he moved his mouth out of reach. Her eyes fluttered open and those luminous gray irises were almost completely obscured by the black of her pupils. She looked dewy, aroused, ready . . . and Sam wasn’t sure this could be slow or even gentle. He just needed to get through the logistics.
“Help me,” he grated, and her eyes regained focus as they registered the frustration on his face. He was tugging at the hem of his tank top and she said something, he couldn’t be sure what, but it sounded like cripes or crumbs. It made him smile, and he wondered at the lightness he felt in this moment. He was hard, he was burning up, he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her right where she stood—and at the same time he felt elated. Like a kid at a carnival, he felt excited, happy, nervous, and ready all at the same time.
She helped him drag the tank up and over his cast and then looked at it for a moment before placing it neatly to one side.
“At some point,” she said primly, despite the alarming wobble in her voice, “you and I are going to discuss the fact that you were just wearing a tank top. Why have we been struggling with those button-up shirts whe . . .” She stopped abruptly, and he could see exactly when the truth hit her. She gasped softly. “You deliberately made me struggle with those shirts, didn’t you?”
