Page 89 of How to Lose at Love
Ryann’s breath quickens.
Her skin is warm and sweet, and she gets goose bumps when I kiss the exposed skin along the T-shirt neckline.
Next, I press my lips to the indent at the corner of her mouth, one side, then the other.
So soft.
Unable to stop myself, I press my lips against hers, because honestly, it feels like the next logical step.
* * *
Ryann
One second Dallasis dropping delicate kisses along my jawline, the next our lips are pressed together and his tongue is in my mouth.
One large palm settles itself on my neck, thumb stroking my cheek.
Then his lips are on mine, though they’re not supposed to be, warm and supple and pressing into mine softly.
Dallas hovers over me as I lie back on the pillow, letting him kiss me, parting my lips so his tongue can slip inside. Cautiously, it explores, mingling with mine.
Everything about it is tentative and slow, unlike the kisses that came before it.
No one has ever kissed me like this before.
Not that I can recall. None of them stand out as remarkable.
Damn shame that Dallas Colter isn’t in the market for a girlfriend because now that I’ve spent a little bit of time with him, my mind is going to that place.
The daydreaming, woolgathering, touch-myself-when-he’s-not-around place.
His T-shirt is not made out of boyfriend material.
I’d be smart to remember that.
That doesn’t mean I can’t love the way his lips feel or like the way his body heat warms me from the inside—does it?
No, ma’am, it does not…
And so, I relish Dallas’s hand on my hip as he kisses me, his large body moving so he’s between my legs, erection pressed into my pelvis. Silently, I will his palm to roam higher, to cup my breast or sneak beneath my shirt.
Alas, he does not.
He doesn’t grind on me or try to remove any clothes, his or mine.
I tamp down my restlessness, pulling my mouth from his. End the kiss so it doesn’t go too far or fill me with hope I have no right to feel. I don’t want to wake up in the morning and have to convince myself the kiss wasnothing, so I won’t let it turn intosomething.
“Truth or dare,” I whisper breathlessly.
Dallas does as predicted and pulls back, moving off me and rolling back to his side of the bed.
“Truth.”
He has no card, but there is a question brewing in my brain that begs to be let out.
“Are you a commitment-phobe?”
He rolls so he’s lying on his back now, looking at the ceiling. “No, of course not. Why would you ask that?”
