“I didn’t mind.”
“You—wait. Which wedding? First or second?”
His turn to roll his eyes. “Does it matter?”
“You tell me. I don’t know anything about how much your weddings meant to you.”
“Talking about weddings makes me less inclined to agree to letting you kiss me.”
With the lights lowered over the dance floor and fairy lights twinkling in the trees and the right amount of wine in my system,coupled with that rigid brow and the quirk of his lips, Iwantto kiss him.
It’s a challenge now.
It’s a challenge that I intend to win.
He’s gripping my hand between us while he holds me tight with his other arm, but I disentangle it and run my fingers through his hair.
Holyshit.
It’s soft.
It’s baby-blanket soft. “You’re only threatening to not kiss me because you hope it’ll make me initiate a kiss.”
“You need this kiss more than I do.”
“I didn’t ask for it though. You suggested it. Which begs the question… How much do youwantit, Fletcher?”
His pupils are dilating and his lids are lowering and he’s staring at my mouth.
He wants to kiss me.
Our bodies are lined up tighter than would ever be allowed at a middle school dance. There’s a hard ridge nestled against my belly that tells me he’s turned on.
Because I turn him on?
Or because he’s a hornball who gets turned on at the drop of a hat?
Is this a game?
Does he play kissing chicken?
Does he want a kiss to turn into something more?
Or is it simply an honest offer to kiss me to make my ex jealous, when neither my ex-boyfriend nor my ex-best friend should give a crap who I’m kissing?
“I like kissing,” Fletcher says, still watching my lips, his erection still pushing against me. “Like it even more when it pisses someone off and comes without strings.”
“You’re a disaster, aren’t you?”
“Every fucking day. Only way to live.”
I was supposed to be here with Odette. Playing games over dinner likewhich of these couples do you think will make itandshould I hit on that guy or will that make him more likely to need an obituary sooner?, which is Odette’s favorite at social events, but only social events where Sheila won’t overhear, since Sheila’s kind heart isn’t always as amused by darker humor. I should be doing the “YMCA.” Slow-dancing to Ed Sheeran love songs. Being something of a nuisance for fun in a place where I didn’t want to care what anyone thought of me since this would be the last time I’d see most of them for probably years.
Coming with Fletcher is different.
It doesn’t sayI have such a good life that I’m living it up with my elderly neighbor lady without a care in the world.
It saysthis hot, hard, muscular hunk of testosterone pounds me every nightandfuck you, Miller and Stefanie.
