Page 43 of Bottles & Blades
Because her tongue dips ever so tentatively into my mouth, brushes along mine.
It’s the barest touch, the smallest movement.
But it’s courage and curiosity and it’sTiff.
My control snaps, and I’m moving before I realize, wrapping my arm around her waist, bringing her flush against me. Christ, the soft press of her tits against my chest, the lush curve of her ass…
Heaven.
Her lips. Her body. This kiss.
Eventually, though, she draws back, and it takes everything in me to not taste her again. Her lips are swollen, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her tits bounce from her breaths coming in rapid succession.
I should let her catch her breath, let her finish getting ready.
But then she shifts, nails digging into my skin, chin lifting, mouth coming close again.
“Fuck it,” I mutter.
I kiss her.
Not tentatively, not gently, not like I should kiss a virgin.
But wet and hot and deep and long, and it’s just going from incredible tofuckingincredible because I’ve lifted her up and set her on the counter, stepped between those shapely legs, when there’s a knock at the door.
I still.
She takes a moment to do the same, so lost in our kiss that it takes her a bit to realize I’ve drawn to a halt.
“What is it?” she asks, slowly dragging her lips from mine.
Before I can reply, there’s another knock at the door.
She goes stiff.
“Easy, buttercup.” I help her down. “We’re expecting them.” I nod to her computer and the pile of books on the counter. “Why don’t you finish getting ready?”
I turn for the door, not aware that she’s followed me until she says, “Expecting them to do what?”
“Tiff,” I say, stopping her, nudging her toward the books. “It’s eight, baby. You’ve got to get packed up and ready so you can make your class on time.”
Her brows drag together, but the knocking comes again, and this time when I move to answer it, she doesn’t follow me. I let the guys in, make sure the shit they brought—a new door, a new camera doorbell, and a new set of locks—is the right shit, the good shit.
And since these are Pascal’s guys, they are.
I leave them to it, turn back.
Tiff is shrugging into her backpack, a giant hoodie dwarfing her frame, and the bolt of guilt—she’s so fucking young—jolts through me, only it’s quieter this time. Probably because she’s closing the distance between us, her voice hushed, her eyes flashing.
“What are you up to?”
“Your door isn’t safe.”
“It—”
I step closer, cup her cheek. “Let’s save us both the argument. Your door and lock were shit. I’m replacing it so no assholes like Dave will be able to get in. Okay?”
A taut moment of silence. “And if I say it’s not okay?”
