I swallow hard. “Yes, it is.”
He steps closer. “We’re in public.”
“We are?” I’d forgotten everything but him.
His head dips, as his hands rise to cup my face. The second he touches me, I nearly fall into him. I clasp his wrists to keep steady.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
My inner voice squeaks in alarm. August is going to kiss me. I won’t be able to play this off. Objectivity has flown the coop.
I lick my dry lips. “I got that.”
Carefully, he lowers his lips to mine, watching me the whole time, as if to sayIt’s okay, I got you. And I believe him, even if my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. Almost lazily, hislids lower, and I follow suit, lifting up on my toes to meet him. The first touch has my breath hitching. Or maybe it’s his. They intermingle and catch.
And then he does it again, brushes my lips so gently like they’re made of spun sugar. I feel it everywhere, radiating outward in little pings of pleasure. I want more but all I can think of is him and how strange it all is that we’re here now. And where do I put my hands? How much do I give him?
Perhaps he knows how nervous I am, that I have no idea what to do, for he murmurs a sound of reassurance and goes slowly, softly, learning my lips with little touches and tastes while teaching me his. And it feels so very good, that my head goes light as my body grows heavy and languid.
Those long, talented fingers of his cradle my face while he nuzzles my mouth nipping and caressing. I feel the tension in those hands, in the quickening of his breath. But he holds himself still. For me.
The knowledge of his care has me making a little sound of need, moving closer. August angles his head going deeper, lingering longer, one hand gliding down my neck, along my back to gather me up. I rise higher on my toes, my arms wrapping around his neck to hold on, or keep him close. I don’t know anymore. I simply want. He could kiss me like this forever, and I would love it. And I haven’t even tasted his tongue.
I should do that. I should open my mouth, invite him inside. Lick him up like ice cream. My breath comes in pants. And he grunts in response, his mouth firmer, greedy. Oh, but it’s perfect. I had no idea...
“You two about done?”
January’s question, though delivered with bland inference, snaps along my spine like a whip. I startle with a muffled squeak and rear back. Not too far; August doesn’t let me go but lifts his head to glare at his brother.
Jan gives August a once-over, then raises a brow. “Came to bring Pen upstairs.”
“Get your own girl,” August retorts but steps back. His glossy hair is mussed and his lips look a bit fuller.
Swollen. From kissing me. I die. Honestly. Just die. Never in my wildest imaginings... Okay, maybe I did imagine somewhat. But the reality is much, much better.
August gives me a soft smile and gently smooths my hair. “Thanks for the good-luck kiss, Sweets.”
Was that what it was?
Clearing my throat, I straighten and find my voice. “Go be you, Pickle.”
His smile is a flash of light and promise. “On it.”
Twenty-One
Pen
The luxury box suite is like a mini apartment with a wall view of the stadium. Rectangular in shape, there’s a private full bathroom—according to Jan—at the back and then an intimate living room area with a long tan suede sofa, matching armchairs placed in conversation groups. Deco-style table lamps with cream-colored shades give the space a warm glow. Flat screens hang on each wall so that one might watch the game from there—although I have no idea why someone would come to a game and watch it from a TV.
In the middle of the space is a wood-paneled section dedicated to a kitchenette and long granite-topped bar. Here, one can help themselves to food, or eat at the island, and still see the action.
But the money section is definitely the theater-style rows of plush leather seats that face the field. A high-top bar runs along the back of the seats for eating and drinking as well.
In short, every comfort for the ultimate viewing experience has been thought of. I’m more than a little awed. It’s relatively empty at the moment, with a few staff checking on the buffet and manning the drinks bar, but I spot June and May immediately. As soon as they see me, they hustle over with wide eyes.
“Oh, my fucking God,” May whispers, clutching my hand like a vise. “You will never—”
The soft, muffled woosh of a toilet flushing has her biting her lip.
