Page 42 of Scoring Eden

“Eden?”

“Yeah?”

“Relax.”

And then he’s kissing me.

At first, it’s just a press of his lips on mine. Soft, barely a kiss at all. But then he moves in for another, applying more pressure this time, and the breath whooshes from my lungs.

Every part of me—my mouth, my hands, my hips—melts into him. My eyes close on instinct, my fingers curling into his long hair, winding through the dark-blond strands, as every nerve ending in my body ignites.

God, it’s been so long since I’ve been kissed.

And I’ve never, not once in my life, been kissed like this.

Alex groans, his hand drifting from my back to cup my cheek, angling my head just right so that he can slip his tongue between my lips. It’s completely unnecessary. The situation doesn’t call for tongue at all. Yet, I find my own twirling around his as the chorus of shutters and lewd heckles continues to surge around us.

I shouldn’t like this so much. I shouldn’t like it at all. So, why do I take his tie in my fist and pull until he’s flush against me? Why do I whimper in disappointment when he finally pulls away?

My knees knock together as I will myself not to collapse in front of the fifty or so paparazzi who’d be thrilled to catch me in such a moment of humiliation, and Alex grabs my waist to settle me.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” I’m barely coherent. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

He grins, unflustered, as if that one kiss didn’t just awaken his libido after a ten-year-long nap, which, given his infamous sexual exploits, I suppose it didn’t. That one might just be me.

“Ready to go in?”

Not even a little bit. I need an hour alone to splash cold water on my face and stare at a wall to process what just happened. But I nod anyway, because I doubt that’s in the cards for me tonight. In fact, I’m acutely aware that whatever awaits me inside might be worse than what I’ve already encountered out here.

Still, I’m glad to leave the swarm of shutterbugs behind me as Alex slides his hand to the small of my back and guides me inside.

“How was that for you?” he asks once the bronze doors are closed behind us, silencing the barking of the paparazzi.

I fight the urge to run my fingers over my tingling lips. “Horrible.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod. “Worst kiss I’ve ever had.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets with a knowing tilt to his lips. Lips that I can’t stop looking at. Lips that are even softer than they should be. Lips that I cannot allow to touch mine again tonight, lest I lose all my good reason and judgment for a second time.

Must be the whiskey.

“We shouldn’t do that again, then,” he says.

I shake my head violently. “No. Definitely not.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, well…” I check my manicure for an excuse not to look at him. “You’re a terrible kisser.”

“And you’re a terrible liar, but we’re late.” Alex holds out his hand. “Time to face the music.”

The event space has a different vibe from the foyer, so much so that it’s a wonder we’re in the same building. Where the entrance was classic opulence, this room is all polished concrete, exposed steel pipes and brick-cladded walls. It’s moody, and sexy, but no less lavish than the marble and bronze work downstairs.

Perfect for the athletic elite.