I’ve never made a pass at anyone in my life before. No one. Not once. Not ever. It’s terrifying. But also, somehow, exactly the right thing to do.
Owen glides his gentle fingers over my cheek. The intimacy of that tiny action makes my heart swell and dance at the same time. As if acting by themselves, my eyes drift shut, and my face sinks into his hand, like it knows it belongs there.
He slides closer.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, his breath warm on my skin.
I open my eyes. His face is inches from mine. Those dark lashes outline his brown eyes, the light from the fire picks out honey tones in his hair and stubble, and his lips part the tiniest bit.
I untwine my hand from his, desperate to stroke his cheek. His skin is smooth, and the stubble tickles my fingertips as I run them along the bottom edge of his lower lip.
Well, I guess I’ve gone this far already, so what the hell. I lean in and capture that lip between mine.
Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s full and juicy and sends an arrow right between my legs.
He kisses me back, all soft and sweet. His lips move to the end of my nose, then my forehead, before he brushes them across the closed lids of my still-damp eyes.
This is not at all how I expected one-night-only kisses to feel. I figured they’d be all about the lust, not gentle, kind, and soothing. It’s like he saw the hurt in my heart and is trying to kiss it better.
He takes my glass and sets it on the table with his, then lifts his other leg onto the sofa and scoops me toward him. I uncross my legs and wrap them around him. It’s either that or my feet are heading straight for his crotch. And there are parts of me I’d much rather head in that direction than my toes. Not that those parts will be heading there anytime soon. All I’m doing is kissing him—that’s reckless enough for me. I’m not having the first one-night stand of my life with someone I barely know.
Just kisses. That’s all.
He takes my hands in his and runs his lips across my knuckles.
“Are you sure?” he asks again. “I don’t want to take advantage of a stranded woman who’s had booze on an empty stomach and is upset about her ass of an ex-boyfriend.”
“I’m not upset about him.” I return the kiss to his hands. “And I had a snack before I went out to play with Elsa.” Another kiss. “Also, it’s not me who’s stranded.”
The need to be as close to him as possible is all-consuming. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my cheek against his. Lordy, his skin smells mouthwateringly good—part him and part my grapefruit body wash.
My spine melts as he runs his fingers up and down my back. As I arch into him, his breath deepens against my ear. Lips brush my earlobe and tickle a path down my neck as his hands move over my hips and onto my thighs. The sparks racing down my neck collide with the ones rising from my legs.
My willpower starts to dissolve.
But I must stay on the right side of this and stick to just kissing. Only kissing.
I tilt my head and pull my hair out of the way to give him as much neck as possible to play with. If I’ve been brave enough to make this happen, I want his mouth on as much of my skin as possible.
Goosebumps radiate from his every touch, rippling up beyond my hairline and down my side.
Then his lips are on mine. I open my mouth to welcome him in and greedily suck the sweet essence of whiskey from his tongue.Shouldn’t kissing someone new be awkward? Shouldn’t it take time to figure out how your mouth works with someone else’s? It always has for me.
Not so this time. For the first time in my life, my lips instantly fit with someone—a someone who will be gone tomorrow. It’s like fate is making an ironic joke at my expense. Thanks, fate.
Owen’s hands move up under the edge of my sweatshirt. I shudder as they revisit the spot they first touched when he caught me from falling off the steps last night.
I can allow a bit of skin touching. I mean, that’s barely more than kissing.
“You’re so warm and soft,” he says against my mouth, his voice deeper.
I tip my forehead against his and trace the outline of his mouth with a finger. “Your lips are even more delicious than your banana bread.”
Our mouths crash back together. Is this what passionate attraction feels like? If it is, well, my God, I let Alastair steal years of my life.
Owen lies back on the sofa and pulls me down on top of him. I press the whole of me against the whole of him. Good God, he’s hiding something good in those jeans.
Must not think about that.
