Page 55 of Sweet Distraction

“But instead,” he murmurs, “I’m wondering what you taste like. If your mouth is just as clever, just as smart, when it’s consumed with mine. When it’s wrapped around me. If you’d still talk back when you’re gasping for—”

His hands land on either side of me, braced against the wall behind my shoulders, seconds before he kisses me.

It’s not soft.

It’s not sweet.

It’s desperate. Punishing.

It’s suffering, like holding a grenade with the pin already pulled.

I gasp into it, but I don’t pull back. Not right away. Because he’s fire and fury and grief, and his mouth on mine cracks something wide open in me that I’m too scared to admit to. Too scared to acknowledge.

His hand grazes my waist. The chills chase. My fingers fist in his shirt. The ache burns. We break apart for a breath—my hands against his chest and his knee between my thighs—and that’s all it takes.

Reality slams into us.

He jerks back.

I stagger forward and away from him.

For a long beat, neither of us says a word. Our breathing is ragged. My lips tingle. My chest heaves like I’ve just sprinted a mile.

But his eyes hold mine. Those pools of green are pure torment that don’t look away.

I bolt.

Embarrassed. Ashamed. Turned on. Desperate for more when more is a mistake.

I run to my room, shut the door behind me, and slide down the smooth wood until my ass is on the floor. My chest heaves, and I press my hand over my mouth like I’m not sure if I want to remember his taste or scratch it out.

Who am I kidding? I don’t think I’ll ever forget his taste again. Whiskey mixed with hunger. Desire mixed with desperation. Need edged with a violent want. Wrong mixed with—

I hear Poppy stir on the monitor and look at my phone to see her sigh softly before rolling on to her side.

I push myself up.

What the hell did I just do? What did I just risk for her?

I just kissed her dad. My boss. I just crossed a line I can’t take back.

I scrub a hand over my face knowing, if given the chance again, I’d probably do the same.

How can one man—one moment—make me feel more alive than I’ve felt since James died?

Maybe even more than when James was alive?

What fire did Rocket just stoke with that kiss?

And why—fucking hell, why—do I fear that I don’t want it put out?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Willow

Avoiding Rocket turns out to be easier than I expected.

At least at first.