One of his hands lifts to tangle in my hair.
My belly drops.
My nipples contract.
My vagina does too.
Oh my god.
I’m kissing Davis Remington.
I’m kissing Davis Remington.
I let one of my hands drift up into his hair too.
Davis’s hair is so soft.
Like,crazysoft.
No wonder he keeps it long.
Hair this soft shouldn’t be cut short. It should be long. Luxurious. Pettable.
Pettable?
Fuck.
I go two years without dating, kissing, or even having recreational sex with a man, and the first time I need to kiss one just to keep up appearances of a fake boyfriend, I’m fantasizing about his hair and calling him pettable.
But also?—
God, I miss kissing.
The lights flash on around me, but I can only tell by the shift behind my eyelids.
“There you—oh. Oh, my. I?—”
Another unexpected voice joins us. “Ray, the museum’s—oh my god. Out.Out!”
Tillie Jean.
Tillie Jean to the rescue.
Am I still kissing Davis?
I am.
I’m still kissing Davis.
And he’s still kissing me back, his tongue swiping over the seam of my lips, andoh my god, I haven’t been wet this fast when kissing a guy in—well, ever.
All because the boy band crush of my teenage years licked my lips.
“Sloane,” Nigel’s deep, chiding voice says, and that does it.
That jerks me back to reality.
I break the kiss, but keep my hand in Davis’s hair because apparently my hormones are still half in control of this situation now.
