“Touché.” He chuckles and I finally make myself sit up.
“Was it that bad?” I tease.
“The show or the grading?”
“Either.” My blood is full of champagne, leaving me feeling joyful and effervescent. “Both.”
“Terrible,” he teases back, holding up a hand with pen and pencil stains along the inside. “And I’ve been marked.”
“Your fault for being a lefty,” I counter.
“Now that’s a rude thing to say to the person who helped you get through that stack.” A nod at the now-graded pile of papers. “I expected gratitude and instead I’m getting sass.”
Amusement in my belly. “I think you like the sass.”
“I think”—he tucks that unruly strand of hair behind my ear again—“I like anything and everything about you, Kylie Connors.”
That amusement morphs, turning into pleased surprise, into tentative hope, into a yearning to grasp tightly to this moment that’s not clouded with the past.
“Colt,” I whisper, shifting an inch closer.
Warmth in his eyes.
No. Heat in those gorgeous brown eyes of his. They darken, turning the color of melted chocolate, tempting me to dip a finger in, to bring it to my mouth, to…
Taste.
God, I want to taste.
And that’s…
Well, it’s not scary.
Holy heck, it’s not scary.
I lean an inch closer, testing myself, trying to find the edge of my control, where that panic begins to crawl up and take over, to suck the pleasure out of this moment.
But the inch doesn’t do that.
So, I take another.
Then another.
Then suddenly freeze when I realize exactly how close I am to him, our bodies almost touching, our mouths a bare few centimeters apart.
He’s still, the only movement that of his lungs, his breaths coming fast.
So are mine.
“I—”
But I can’t find the right words, can’t give voice to the need that’s burning inside me.
“Take it,” he murmurs.
My pulse hitches. “Wh-what?”
“What you want.”
