“Then he was an idiot who didn’t deserve to kiss you.”
The words hung between us, heavy with implication. My heart was doing something complicated in my chest—hammering and fluttering and generally making it hard to breathe.
“So what else makes a good kiss?” I heard myself ask. “We’ve got anticipation, reading the other person, starting soft. What’s next?”
His eyes darkened. “Touch.”
“Touch.”
“Not just lips. Hands in hair, on the face, the back of the neck. Pulling someone closer. Touch that says ‘I want this, I want you, I can’t get close enough.’”
I swallowed hard. “That’s four. What’s five?”
“The moment when it shifts from soft to something more. When the testing becomes claiming. When you both stop holding back.”
“And six?”
“The sound.” His voice had gone lower, rougher. “The catch in breathing, the soft noises people make when they’re lost in it. When they’re feeling everything.”
“Seven.” My voice was barely above a whisper now. “What’s seven?”
He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze dropping to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. “The way it ends. Not abrupt, not awkward. Slow. Reluctant. Like neither of you wants it to be over.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The conference room had shrunk to just the two of us, the table between us suddenly feeling like both a barrier and the only thing keeping me grounded.
“That’s a pretty comprehensive list,” I managed.
“We could keep going. Make it a top ten.”
“Except I’ve never experienced any of that, so I’m probably not the best person to help write this particular how-to guide.”
The words came out light, joking, but something shifted in his expression. Something heated and intent and a little bit dangerous.
“I could show you.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“If you wanted. I could show you what a good kiss feels like.” Eli leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So you’d know. For future reference.”
I watched the war happening behind his eyes—professionalism versus desire, should versus want. He was my boss’s boss’s boss. We were alone in his conference room after hours. This was inappropriate on approximately seventeen different levels.
And that was probably why I wanted it so badly.
I pushed back from the table and stood, my legs somehow steady despite the fact that my entire body was trembling. I walked around to his side as he tracked my movements, his body still. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the arms of his chair.
I stopped in front of him, close enough that I could smell his cologne—that same woodsy, expensive scent that had scrambled my brain this morning. Close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the barely perceptible stubble along his jaw.
“Gabriella.” My name was a warning.
“You said you could show me.” I was amazed my voice was working at all. “So show me.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
“You work for me.”
“Technically, I work for Shelby.”
