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“I’d like to talk to you for a minute. Will you let me?”
Annoyance brushed her nerves. “Of course, you act like I’d be scared to let you into my house.”
“I just want you to be comfortable around me. Always.”
“Then stop acting like you’re trying to convince me you’re not a secret criminal about to pounce.”
“Point taken.”
They stepped through the door. She wondered what he thought of her place. He’d never been here. She tried to view it through his eyes and wondered if he liked it. The apartment was her personal treasure, with giant windows that let light pour in, and shiny oak floors that hinted at its age. Wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling, adding extra charm. The kitchen was cramped, the pipes clanked when the heat came on, and the closet space was limited, but she loved the airiness and pleasant charm. She especially liked that it had been bought by her own hand after endless hard work and a stoic ambition to finally own something for herself.
“Nice place,” he commented, walking deeper into the room. He glanced at the multi-stone fireplace—still not working, but she was hopeful—and the cozy reading nook she’d put together, bookcases filling up one giant wall, and a lounger over a fuzzy white throw rug. “Have you read all these?” he asked, taking in her massive book collection.
“Yes. Those are my treasures. If I truly love a book, I buy it in hardcover or paperback. The rest are on my Kindle, where I can constantly pick and choose depending on my mood.”
“And you like Scrabble?”
She wrinkled her nose. The brass trophy was a bit ostentatious, but she’d been proud of the tournament she’d won at the Strand bookstore, which had sponsored the event. “I like words. The way they feel on the tongue and sound to the ear. The way they’re used to connect. The way they can be tweaked and changed into a lie or a truth, to either hurt or heal.” She shrugged. “Words are constant.”
“You can’t say stuff like that, Alyssa, and expect me not to want to kiss you.”
Her jaw almost dropped, but she caught it just in time. How could he stare at her with such hunger? As if at one touch, she’d be burned alive? How could she possibly inspire such passion from this man?
She did that terrible cliché thing she despised and licked her lips. “I was uncomfortable when Whitney saw us.”
He let out a breath and jammed his fingers through his hair. “I know. Damnit, I didn’t know how to play it. The idea of anyone trying to embarrass you killed me, so I spun it as a work dinner.”
“Don’t apologize, Jonathan. I wasn’t expecting you to announce we were on a date. I just think we jumped in on impulse and hoped we’d be able to do this in secret for a while before deciding. But you’re in the public eye. There is no privacy. And I don’t want to see anything between us affect your election.”
He tore at his tie as if he needed more breath. She itched to go over there and unknot it herself, slip it slowly off his collar, press her lips to his rough jaw, which held the slightest hint of shadow. She fisted her hands to stop herself.
“What if I don’t care about the election?” he asked.
She never hesitated. “Well, I do.”
They stared at one another. The energy crackled like a campfire devouring wood. He began to pace, and she walked to the desk, snatching up a hot pink stress ball and handing it over. He grabbed it, his fingers squeezing mercilessly as if they were about to solve a work problem rather than decide not to date. “What if I’m not ready to walk away from you yet? Want to hear something? I had the day from hell. I’m exhausted and stressed, and I won’t be able to slow down until next November, but sitting across from you at that restaurant? I was happy—from the inside. I was happy for me, not pleased I did something for the city or the people, or for the job. You are my selfish comfort, Alyssa. When you walk into the office, my insides light up. So forgive me if I don’t want to give you up after one date.”
His words battered her, and suddenly, all those rational thoughts that always ruled her world crumbled under the raw need in his eyes when he looked at her. The silence was shattering.
“You can’t say things like that and not expect me to kiss you,” she said.
And suddenly, she was closing the distance and in his arms, rising up on tiptoes, and he was kissing her. And, dear God, she was drowning, held tight against his chest, his hands in her hair and his lips over hers. The blistering heat between them roared, exploded, and she opened her mouth under one perfect thrust of his tongue, starved for the taste of him.
His mouth was hot and damp and delectable. His tongue plunged deep, swirled, explored the cave of her mouth with a carnal hunger and a delicious precision that made her wet between her thighs. The scent of the ocean washed over her, and she whimpered as he nipped at her lower lip, his palms holding her face as he kissed her like she was the only woman he’d ever wanted.
Somehow, he walked her back until she hit the wall, and she slumped against it. Again and again, his mouth pressed, searched, played, while his hands dropped to explore, caressing down her hips to slide around her back and tug her even closer.
Gone. She was gone and never wanted to return. The smell and taste of him, the rough scrape of his jaw against her cheek, the burn of his palm under her buttocks as he lifted her so his thighs bracketed hers, and his erection notched perfectly against her throbbing center.
“I can’t stop,” he muttered, taking the kiss even deeper. “You taste so sweet.”
“You taste like saltwater taffy,” she murmured, sinking her fingers into the silky darkness of his hair, holding his head so he wouldn’t stop. “My favorite treat at the boardwalk.”
“Please don’t ask me to walk away from this,” he said, raining kisses down her cheek and neck, sinking his teeth carefully into the line of her shoulder. Her body shuddered with need, and she gave another moan, lifting her hips. “From us.”
“This is only our first date,” she panted, trying desperately to fight the cotton balls stuffed into her normally clear brain. “How can there be an us?”
“Because, for two years, we got to know each other. Bad and good. Weak and strong. It was like two years of foreplay,” he growled, diving back in to tangle his tongue with hers.
