Elliott steps forward, his lips curving into a cocky grin. “You jealous, Chaos?”
“Don’t call me that. And don’t be stupid. Why on earth would I be jealous?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who’s jealous.”
“I am not.”
“Mmmhmmm.Keep telling yourself that.”
Why are men so freaking infuriating? “You’re the one who’s jealous.”
“Me?”
“How was the date, Loren? Did you give him a handy in the parking lot?”
“I didn’t ask if you— Wait,didyou give him a handy in the parking lot?”
Now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his tone rings with jealousy. Which is crazy because I only threw that at him because I didn’t want to admitIwas the jealous one.
“And what if I did?”
Hold on. Did his left eye just twitch? Holy shit. It did! His left eye twitched, and that jaw isn’t flexing because he’s enjoying this conversation.
Could it be that Elliott reallyisjealous? I can think of one way to find out. “What if I told you I let him kiss me?”
His eyes darken. “I wouldn’t mind at all.” The bite in his tone undermines the words. “You’re probably a shitty kisser anyway.”
He did not just say that to me. What an asshole. “I haven’t had any complaints.” Guys love kissing me. If spin the bottle was a competitive sport, I’d totally take the gold medal.
“Maybe not to your face.”
“Excuse me. I am a fantastic kisser.”
He eases closer, assessing me, eyes scanning and brow furrowed. “Mmm… actually, maybe I’m wrong.”
Elliott Grant admitted he was wrong. Write this date down on your calendar, folks; it might never happen again.
“Your lips are kinda full and not chapped or peeling.” His eyes narrow on my mouth. “And you don’t have any cold sores that I can see.”
Cold sores? I’ll give him a cold, sore, kick to the jaw if he doesn’t back the hell up.
He leans back, his hip pressing into the counter. “I take it back. You have the makings of an average kisser.”
Average?Average? “I amnotaverage.” I might be average in bed, but when it comes to making out, I deserve a freaking trophy.
He winks and says, “If you say so, fish lips.”
The petty name-calling is the final straw and for unknown reasons that I’m sure to spend the foreseeable future trying tosort out, I grab him by the back of the neck and tug his mouth down to mine.
He hesitates for only a moment before leaning into me, his soft lips molding to mine like they were made just for me. He tastes like vanilla creamer, a hint of coffee, and shock.
It’s an intoxicating blend of flavors I want to savor. I kiss him slowly and deeply, teasing his tongue with mine, just enough to leave us both clamoring for more.
Thisis how a first kiss is meant to feel.
Butterflies fluttering rapidly in stomach? Check.
Brain malfunctioning? Check.
