I justwantit.
With Davis.
His beard tickling my mouth. His lips suckling mine. His hand curling into my hair.
His hard-on getting harder as I roll to line up our bodies, kissing him back.
He smells stronger of campfire and pine, and he tastes like tequila, and when his tongue touches mine, it takes everything in me to not moan.
Cannot moan.
Absolutely cannot.
This isn’t about moaning.
It’s about?—
Actually, I don’t know what it’s about.
Do I care?
He adjusts his grip on my hair, massaging my scalp and curling harder into my locks, and nope.
Don’t care.
I hug him harder around the waist, pulling him closer while his breath goes ragged. “Sloane?—”
“Practice,” I gasp. “Sell it. Wedding. Practice.”
At least, I think that’s what I say.
Whatever it is that actually comes out of my mouth convinces him that kissing is good.
Kissing is right.
Kissing is necessary.
He rolls so he’s mostly on top of me, freeing my other arm to wrap around him too while our lips and tongues clash in my favorite dance of all humanity.
His leg slides against mine, parting my thighs.
I find the hemline of his T-shirt and slide my hand under it, tracing along hot, smooth skin.
I wonder if he has tattoos all over his back like he does on his arms.
If I’ll get to see them.
Study them.
His arms are fascinating. Some people get intricate patterns. Davis hasthings, all woven together like a puzzle. A basketball. A guitar. A turtle. A volcano.
I’m kissing the ultimate man of mystery, and on Saturday, I get to marry him.
For pretend.
This is fake. Imaginary.
I slide my other hand under his shirt too, and he angles his mouth harder against mine, then shifts his hand from my hair to my neck, fingertips barely brushing my sensitive skin, making me gasp.
