Fucking fuckery, I could feel his breath on my lips, taste the lingering sweetness from the glaze. His lips were so full, so ripe, so ready to be nipped and . . .
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hey you,” he whispered back his signature phrase, the one that melted any resistance I might’ve possessed. Then he leaned down, I was tilted up . . . and our lips met in the middle.
I might’ve died in that moment.
Happy.
Elated.
Complete.
This kiss was different from the one in the kitchen. It was slower, deeper, full of intention and promise, as though Jeremiah was pouring himself, his very essence, through his lips and into my mouth, driving himself into my spirit in ways that made my head swim. His hand was still in my hair, holding me gently but firmly, while my fingers tightened against his thigh.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing a little harder.
“The movie’s still on,” I said, though I made no move to look away from his face.
“It’s a good movie,” he admitted.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I’ve seen it a million times.”
“So you won’t miss anything if we skip the rest?”
I could feel my eyes smiling, curling upward in ways I knew painted crow’s feet around the edges. “What movie?”
He chuckled as we stared at each other for a moment longer. I realized in that moment that we’d crossed some invisible line. The evening had shifted from dinner and friendly conversation to something else entirely, something that made my pulse blaze and my skin feel too tight.
And for the first time all night, Iwasn’tnervous about what came next.
I was excited.
“Your couch is really comfortable—”
“Fuck the couch,” I said, drawing a shocked, wide-eyed gaze. “I want to stretch out, and there’s only one place to do that properly. Bedroom?”
Jeremiah’s grin mirrored mine. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
So I didn’t. I simply rose, took his hand like a lord leading his lady in some Elizabethan play, and guided us past the rom-com, down the short hallway, and into my bedroom.
“Whoa, nice,” Jeremiah said as we entered. “I love the dark curtains.”
A year earlier, I’d splurged and bought a bedroom set styled after an English royal residence I’d seen onBridgertonorDownton Abbey—I couldn’t remember which. The colors were rich crimson, deep gold, and traces of blues and blacks. My curtains were thick, blackouts that hung from floor to ceiling, ensuring no sunrise ever bothered my REM sleep. That had been a good plan—not well thought out with a tiny gremlin who woke up before the sun, but a good attempt at serenity. My bed was covered with a puffy duvet and an army of pillows, each mottled with the same colors as the curtains. Lamps purchased from a fancy lighting shop in Decatur sat on elegantly carved side tables that matched the scrollwork of the headboard that rose nearly halfway up the wall.
It was dramatic. Possibly a bit pretentious.
But the overall effect was, well, regal . . . and I loved it.
“I feel like I should watch where I sit,” Jeremiah said, his eyes widening as he took in the room.
I laughed, spun, gripped his shoulders, and shoved him onto the bed.
“Heeeey!” followed his body.
“I have a five-year-old. You can’t hurt anything.”
One brow rose. “A little pain can be fun . . . in the right place.”
