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The kiss is just the right blend of soft and hard, demanding and giving. I wind my arm around his neck, slide my hand into his hair and pull him closer. Needing him closer as our tongues dance, our sighs mingling together into one perfect, cohesive sound.
He pushes me against the cool glass, one hand still gripping my butt, his other hand drifting down my front. A barely-there touch over the soft cotton of my T-shirt, my entire body tightens in response; my nipples harden beneath the lace of my bra.
I feel like I’m drowning. In his taste, his hands, his scent, his overwhelming presence. It’s so confusing, what I’m feeling while in his arms. I don’t like him. I don’t want to want him.
But I do.
The kiss grows hungrier, more insistent. Our hands are everywhere, his slipping beneath my T-shirt to touch my belly. Mine slide down to curve over his very firm backside, squeezing, pulling him closer. Until we’re nothing but a panting, yearning, straining mess.
I break the kiss first, staring up at him in dazed wonder.His swollen lips are parted, his hair a mess from my fingers, and he watches me, his breathing rough.
He looks too beautiful for words.
“We shouldn’t—”
“I’m sorry—”
We start talking at the same time, his apology making me want to shove him away.
Instead I grab hold of his tie and pull him into me, our lips crashing together, our tongues circling, tasting. It’s a frenzied, out-of-control mess, and I fall back against the glass door again, startled when I hear the familiar tinkling of the bell above us.
He ends the kiss this time, his gaze lifting, staring just beyond my head and through the door. “We need to—”
“Move this elsewhere?” I ask, earning a startled glance from him. I bet he didn’t expect that. “I agree.” I push him away, and he steps back, looking just as dazed as I feel. Grabbing hold of his tie again, I take him with me, walking through the café toward the kitchen, the two of us completely silent.
I can hear him breathing, feel his warmth radiating toward me, and I let go of his tie, take hold of his hand instead. He follows behind willingly, his fingers locking around mine, and I hold my breath, afraid he might say something to ruin the moment.
Thank God he keeps his big mouth shut.
Excitement pulses through my veins. I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s a mistake. I know it, and I’m sure he knows it too, but there’s something about him I can’t resist. The way he looks at me, the things he says, the way I feel when I’m in his arms, his mouth on mine, our tongues tangling...
He’s irresistible. And I’m tired of fighting it. Fighting with him.
We enter the kitchen and the minute the door swings shut behind us, I turn toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck as he bends to kiss me. Our mouths cling perfectly, the taste of him becoming quickly addictive. I’m fast becoming addicted to the way he touches me, too. His hands race over me, too light, not lingering long enough, and I move against him with a whimper. His answering low moan vibrates against my lips, sending an echo through my entire body, and I shift closer. Restless. Wanting more.
I can’t even question what’s come over me. I don’t kiss men I don’t really know. I definitely don’t grope them either. I’m no prude, but I’ve never had something like this happen to me. It feels so random, so completely out of character. Scary and exhilarating and exciting and—
“You’re thinking too much.” He grabs hold of my hips and guides me backward, until I bump against the wall with a startled gasp. Taking my hands, he raises my arms above my head, pinning my wrists with his firm grip. “You need to learn how to just feel.”
Before I can offer any sort of argument, he leans in to kiss me, softly at first. A teasing, gentle caress of his lips that makes me want more. His kiss slowly becomes harder, then hungrier, until I feel like I’m about to lose my mind—my very soul—to his greedy, wicked mouth.
God, he’s so right. I need to forget everything and just lose myself in the moment. Lose myself in him. Let go of all my troubles, my hang-ups, my wariness over getting involved with Gage. I want to feel his hands. His mouth. His tongue, his fingers, his...
He breaks away to blaze a trail with his lips along my jaw, down my neck. My hands are still pinned in his grip, and I struggle against it, wanting to touch him.
Needing to touch him.
“If I let you go, are you going to run?” He breathes the question against my neck, his teeth nibbling the sensitive skin.
I shake my head. No way am I going to run away from this, though a tiny voice deep inside my mind tells me I absolutely should, that I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life. “No.”
His grip gentles on my wrists, his thumbs sweeping across my wildly beating pulse. I shiver at the contact, shocked at how he can illicit my body’s response with the lightest of touches.
“I think I like having you trapped.” He pushes my hands together and grabs hold of both of my wrists with one big hand, his other hand sliding down my front, between my breasts, one finger trailing down the center of my stomach to stop just at the waistband of my jeans, sending shivers cascading all over my skin.
“I’m sure you do,” I say, trying for sarcastic, but yet again, I just sound breathless. Needy.
Damn it.
