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The crowd screams and chants the name Tris.
Gym Bro leans down, chin hovering a hair over my shoulder. “She was an original member. Now she’s part-owner of the team that plays here. Guess she wanted to make an appearance tonight.”
I turn, and my lips are mere centimeters from his. “You like baseball?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “You?”
“Used to play softball in high school.”
“Were you any good?”
“Broke the school’s record for number of home runs in a season.” My sister’s record.
“No joke?” he asks genuinely.
“That was a lifetime ago.”
“Bet it’s like riding a bike. There are some things you never forget how to do.” He winks.
That sexual innuendo is so obvious that it might as well be hovering above him in a bubble, like in the comics.
I sink my teeth into the corner of my mouth to stop from smiling as I turn and look back at the stage.
The music is good—really, really good—and it’s … sexy. So sexy that my girls are all grinding and kissing on their respective guys—Mr. Sophisticated, Arty the Artist, and Tall, Dark, and Filthy.
When they announce their last song, I realize I’m running out of time, and Gym Bro hasn’t made a move other than that arm around my waist.
I will not leave here without a kiss.
I look over my shoulder at him, and our eyes meet. I lick my lips as I turn in his arm, push up on my toes, close my eyes, and press my lips to his.
For a second, there is no sort of reciprocation, but when I start to pull back, his hand presses against the small of my back, and he finally kisses me.
The kiss is a complete contradiction to who this man appears to be. It’s not rough or hard, nor a devouring deep dive or passionate, per se. It’s soft kisses, and then he gently nips at my lower lip. And then it’s all that again. It’s teasing and tantalizing, and it sends a shiver down my spine. It’s perfect.
I turn around and face the stage, soaking up all those feelings a wanted kiss always makes you feel. I take the opportunity to raise my hands and clap as the song ends—this way, no one is the wiser that I’m actually applauding myself and the fact that I pursued the kiss, which is totally unlike me. My little self-congratulatory celebration happens when his calloused hand splays across the exposed skin of my belly.
He starts to pull away, no doubt not expecting skin on skin, but I stop him by placing my hand over his.
Turning my head, I look up at him as his jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and his Adam’s apple bobs. My nipples tighten as raw sexual desire oozes from him.
I lick my lips again, pretty sure he’ll understand the assignment. Why are my thoughts reminiscent of a freaking social media post?
Fuck you very much, COVID.
His lips come down on mine, and inner thoughts are gone.
This kiss is slow and deliberate. It begins with a gentle press of his lips and the swipe of his tongue. I open slightly to him, and his tongue swirls around the tip of mine. My insides liquify immediately, and it’s not until I am met with a slight resistance that I realize I’m all but guiding his hand down my pants.
I quickly break the kiss. Eyes wide, I mouth, “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head as his fingers gently dig into my flesh. He leans down and nips my earlobe. “Red, don’t you dare be sorry. There’s nothing sexier than a beautiful woman getting lost in a touch.”
I might not be sorry, but I am embarrassed, so I keep my focus on the concert.
When the lights come up, I step forward. He squeezes my hip as Fawna grabs my hand and pulls me toward her, and then we’re … leaving?
I look back at Gym Bro and smile. He simply lifts his chin.
