Before Him

His husky whisper makes me shiver, his lips against my pulse making me feel like a needy puddle of yes. I’ve never been the kind of girl to make out with virtual strangers, not at parties and definitely not standing in the middle of a sidewalk teeming with people. But I want to. I want his attention, his hands and his lips, and that part of him that’s (yippee!) not so little. I want it all, even as my awkward brain decides to run my mouth.

“Was that meant to be an incentive? I guess they do say it pays to advertise.”

He gives a soft, husky chuckle, and I try not to shiver as the puff of air brushes my neck. “That didn’t sound like a no. You know that, right?” He pulls back and stares down at me, all blue-eyed promise.

“It did sound like I was persuaded.”

“You have such a pretty mouth, Kennedy.” Holding my chin, he gently angles my mouth to meet his. But then his thumb brushes the seam of my lips. Oh my . . . the second pass turns my limbs to Jell-O and coaxes my mouth open. Despite the bright lights, the crowds, and the traffic, the moment feels intimate. Private. It’s like we’re the only two people in the universe right now as his dark gaze tracks the path of this thumb. His thumb, his gaze, and finally, his lips touch mine. I swallow a soft moan as his lips flirt and tease. It’s a good first kiss, not too hurried or demanding. It makes me feel sort of fluttery ins—

His fingers sweep the length of my spine, and oh! I make the kind of noise I didn’t think I was capable of, low and dirty and full of encouragement. The tenor of the moment changes, his kiss changing in depth and intensity. His hand presses low on my back, the touch almost searing as he draws me closer to him. I tip up onto my toes, and he gives a satisfied groan, his fingers spreading wide as though to maximise the contact. Soft is exchanged for deep demand, and I yield. Boy, do I yield, sinking into the heat of him, my knees unlocking and my fingers gripping his shoulders as his lips devour mine. He tastes of salted heat and of bourbon as I slide my hands to the back of his neck. He’s just so big and so solid, and I want to wrap myself around him like a cloak.

Oh . . .

I make that noise again as his tongue licks into me because all I can think about how it would feel between my legs. I can almost feel the experience, see it as though I’m watching it on TV. My fingers tangled in his dark hair, his head between my thighs, and my body bowing like a bridge as it makes its demands of him. But then his fingers slide to my hip, and my mind is no longer skipping ahead but here with him. Grounded back into the moment. I feel no less frantic but more aware of how little there is between my skin and his. This slip of a dress. The string of my panties.

A whistle pierces my consciousness.

A catcall.

Someone, maybe April, calling my name.

Our kiss slows, lips reluctant to part, smiles part embarrassed, pressed together. As he draws slowly away, a tiny thrill courses through me as I notice how his bottom lip is kind of lustrous.

I brush his mouth with the pad of my thumb, wiping away the traces of my nude-coloured gloss. “You have a—” The words and thought go unfinished as he takes my hand in his, setting his teeth over my somewhat sticky thumb.

He bites. Oh-so gently. Oh-so subtly. But my reaction is anything but subtle.

A heavy breath, a flare of heat between my legs, and the kind of full-body shudder I can do nothing but give in to as he says, “I’m not done kissing you yet.”

A man of his word, he lowers his mouth again. It’s maybe a good thing his arms are still holding me because I suddenly feel like I have vertigo.

* * *

It must be the dress. The dress and the heels, I think to myself as we begin to walk again, wishing I had my hair down so I could hide my smile.

Maybe because I’ve put on a little makeup? It’s not like I’m heinous looking or anything. I’m just more the girl-next-door type.

Maybe vacationing suits me. Or maybe I just scrub up well.

Whatever the reason is, from that most delicious and thorough of kisses to eventually reaching the club, Roman doesn’t let more than an inch or two separate us. I find myself silently sighing in delight at how his fingers remain twisted with mine and how he hugs me to his side as we navigate people and other sidewalk obstacles.