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But the moment Savannah’s mouth touches mine, all that goes out the window.
Logic?
An illusion.
Intelligence?
Say what now?
Restraint?
Phfff…
Logic, intelligence, and control are for other men. For some earlier, dumber version of myself, who couldn’t even imagine a moment like this.
A me who didn’t have the most beautiful, irresistible woman in the world straddling his lap, rubbing against his cock, cupping his face in her hands as she kisses him.
Her first kiss is slow. Hesitant. Almost a question in physical form.
After the briefest brush of her lips against mine, she pulls back, her gaze moving over my face like she’s looking for answers to some question she hasn’t voiced out loud.
For once, I seem to know what she’s thinking.
Me, who never knows what anyone is thinking and barely believes them if they tell me in words. Somehow, I know what she’s thinking. So I say it out loud for her.
“Are we really doing this?”
Her lips twitch into a half smile, her gaze alight with heat. And with something else. Something I’ve never seen in a woman’s gaze when I’ve kissed her. Something I don’t associate with sex at all.
I see humor. Delight. A kind of unrestrained joy that seems both out of place in this moment and like what’s been missing from every other encounter I’ve ever had with a woman.
This moment—with her on my lap, the barest taste of her on my lips—seems to stretch out to eternity, the energy zipping back and forth between us. I feel so connected to another person I can imagine what she’s thinking as easily as I can envision an elegant coding solution.
And just like that, I can imagine an entire future with Savannah. One where she cooks for me and dances around my kitchen and sends me snarky texts when I don’t pay enough attention to her. One where she makes me stop working long enough to watch movies and eat popcorn with her, and I don’t resent the intrusion. One where she kisses me. Where I kiss her, whenever I want. One where kissing is joyous and spontaneous and not some serious production involving candles and lingerie and the pretense of desire.
She rolls her lip beneath her teeth as if biting down on her lip is the only way to keep herself from laughing.
God. She’s so fucking beautiful I can hardly bear to look at her, but I certainly can’t look away.
She nods. “Yeah. I guess we are.”
It takes me second to realize that she’s answering the question I asked out loud a second ago. A lifetime ago, in my mind and in my imagination.
Are we really doing this? Yes, she guesses we are.
My breath catches in my throat and for a second I’m afraid to move, because there’s no way I’m not going to fuck this up. There’s no way I can actually be who she wants. That I can be clever enough, passionate enough, good enough in bed for her.
But fuck that shit …
She’s here. She’s with me. Maybe we’ll have that amazing future I just imagined. Maybe we won’t. Maybe I’ll fuck this up. Maybe I won’t.
All I know is that I want this woman more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I have no idea if I can be enough for her. But I know I have to try.
And I know I want to try. I want to be everything she wants. I want to be her everything.
She quirks her eyebrows like she’s lobbing a silent question back at me. Do I want this, too?
Yeah. Abso-fucking-lutely.
