“Okay.”
His mouth meets mine. Firm, certain, tasting of wine and the promise of more. The kiss builds, slow, unhurried, until I forget every reason tohesitate. When we finally pull apart, my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure it’s visible.
“Tell me to stop.” He rests his forehead on mine.
I don’t.
In fact, I clutch his shirt so he can’t step back.
I angle my face up, lips finding his again, slower this time, deeper, until thought gives way to sensation. His hand slips into my hair, the other steady at my waist, pulling me closer. My body presses into his, soft meeting solid, and the world narrows to heat, breath, and the sound of his low exhale when I open fully to him.
I kiss him harder, hoping he understands what I can’t yet say.
My body explains what I want.
When we eventually break for air, I find my voice.
“Would you like to come to my place?”
Chapter eight
Sheunlocksthedoorand gestures for me to step inside.
Her rental is simple. One couch, a small flat-screen television connected to a small kitchen. Tall windows overlook the narrow street below. A short hallway leads back to the bedroom, I’m guessing and probably the bathroom. There’s a loaf of bread on thecounter next to a few bottles of wine lined up like plans she hasn’t made yet.
“My home for the month.” She sets her key down on the counter. “It’s cute enough.”
“Nothing wrong with a safe place to sleep.” I wink.
Her laugh comes out low, surprised. She reaches for a bottle. “Wine?”
“Only if we give it room to breathe.” I reach for the corkscrew.
She glances at me, amused, and nods. “Spoken like a true expert.”
“Well,” I smirk, unashamed, “you opened the door for it.”
We dig through the cupboards, find a decanter and I pour it carefully, watching the dark red swirl and settle. Our silence stretches, easy but charged. I want to kiss her again, but I resist.
For now.
She’s breathtaking. Barefoot. Hair loose from its knot, a few strands brushing her collarbone. Her lips are flushed from the wine and our kisses. The thin strap of her black dress slides off one shoulder, exposing a hint of freckled skin.
She isn’t posing. Or trying too hard. Rosa is arealwoman.
It’s hard to stop staring.
“Give it ten minutes.” I manage to set the wine bottle down.
“Ten minutes, huh,” she repeats, half-teasing. “You’reveryprecise.”
I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Habit of the trade.”
Rosa blushes and looks down, her hand hovering near the decanter as if searching for something to do.
I reach for it first, along with two glasses. “Come on.” I nod toward the couch. “Let’s be comfortable.”
She hesitates, follows me over. I set everything down on the coffee table. We sit close, not touching. The cushions dip toward the center where our knees nearly meet. She folds one leg beneath herself, hem of her dress brushing her knee.
