Davis leans me back onto the table.
I let him, parting my legs to circle his hips while he hovers over me, fitting that glorious erection between my thighs.
Oh god.
Oh god.
We haven’t even taken our clothes off yet, and I’m hot and wet and ready and floating on hormones and ecstasy.
Probably because my body still acutely remembers how he can make me feel with just his tongue.
He likes me.
He’s dangerous.
Mysterious.
He has secrets.
Connections to the CIA.
Pirate ancestors.
This should turn me off, but instead, I’m clawing at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders while he slides his hands under my shirt, chilly fingers sliding up my belly to caress my breasts over my bra, andoh my god, he’s pinching my nipples.
He’s kissing me and pulsing his pelvis against mine and pinching my nipples and I’m gonna come.
I’m going to orgasm right here, right now, because?—
“One last thing—Jesus Tortellini Christ, do you peopleevernot hump each other? Can’t go see my niece without the humping, can’t break into a goddamn museum without the humping. Fuck.Christ.”
I squeak.
Davis freezes.
His tongue is still in my mouth, and he freezes.
My eyes fly open.
His do too, and I’m suddenly staring at him too close, which makes it look like he has three fuzzy eyeballs because apparently I’m alsomy eyes are losing close-up visionyears old.
He pulls his tongue out of my mouth.
Dammit.
Regrets?
No.
I like kissing.
I like sex.
I’ve done a lot of work to get over the guilt and shame hang-ups about it, even if I’m never having sex again because I don’t trust men, but I trust Davis.
Shit.
I will probably regret trusting Davis.
