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Because she smells like vanilla and tastes likewine.
Maybe I should’ve been more prepared by the glint in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the way I swore she checked me out more thanonce.
I’d dismissed it as myimagination.
Butnope.
We’re kissing. In the hallway of a tapas place I can’t afford and really don’tlike.
I haven’t touched another person in forever, but somehow she’s in my space and I don’t hate it. The signals running down my spine are nowhere near disgust and alarmingly close topleasure.
Even though my dopamine has been down-regulated for months, my dick isn’t getting the message. And when my tongue brushes hers, I realize one of us just took this up a notch. I’m going to lie awake staring at the ceiling tonight, deconstructing it until I can point to exactly the moment our civilized conversation went toshit.
It was probably theoysters.
But assigning blame takes a backseat to something so improbable it blows everything that came before it out of thewater.
She’splayingwith myhair.
Her nails are dragging over the nerves as if she’s dragging a finger along the bars of the tiger cage at thezoo.
Taunting.Teasing.
Rena sways against me, and I swallow. Not because I don’t know how to kiss a woman—it’s like driving stick or making over-easy eggs; once you’ve done it a few times you can’t fuck it up much—but because I’m not sure where we go fromhere.
In sixth grade, I learned an important lesson: it doesn’t matter where you start; it’s where youend.
My instinct is to do what I did in my first science fair when my volcanobroke.
Take an awkward prototype and weave it into somethingexquisite.
I’d change the angle, part her lips more. Not so I can press my tongue inside, just so I can learn the shape of hermouth.
Back her against the wall, find out what her fascinating curves feel like flush against mychest.
I’d capture the ends of her hair between my fingers, offer a definitive opinion on whether it’s waved orcurled.
But I’m not about to paw a woman in the hall of an exclusive tapas place—which shouldn’t be a thing—because my dad died three weeks ago and took everything I’ve built and everything I am withhim.
I pullback.
The light stings the backs of my retinas as I blink my eyes open, finding her flushed oval face a few inches frommine.
Before I can be grateful for the fact that we’re on equally uneven footing, she yanks the ground out from under meagain.
“I live eight blocks from here.” It’s the same teasing voice she used earlier, plus a promise underneath that goes straight down myspine.
Half of me wants to check the clock to make sure it’s still seven on aMonday.
The other half wants to follow her off the edge of a cliff. Probably the same half that’s responsible for the pulse I can feel thudding in my clenched fists and the fact that there is an evolving situation threatening the zipper of my dresspants.
She’s waiting for me to say something. Because conversation requires twopeople.
“I can’t take advantage of a businessmeeting.”
My voice is unusually rough, but I sense it’s my words she’s focusing on when her lashes blink once.Twice.
The warmth evaporates from her gaze, replaced by confusion.“What?”
