So. Damn. Good.
He dips me, Hollywood style, forcing one of my legs to kick up.
Surprise battles with elation inside me as this man takes ownership of my mouth. This goes against the rules of every fake dating book I’ve ever read. Leave it to Kaz Lindström for acing the kiss without practicing first.
It’s official. My fake boyfriend is a bonified book hero.
He furthers the intensity of the kiss.
My brain lets off a cocktail of chemicals that send a jolt of electricity shooting straight between my legs.
My feet no longer touch the ground. I’m certain I’m floating on a cloud.
This all-encompassing, combustive kiss put the saucy scenarios I’ve been entertaining in my head every time I’ve swapped the main characters with Kaz and me in my current spicy hockey romance read to shame. Hell, this kiss makes all the kisses I’ve ever read in my romance books tame in comparison. I’ve been kissed before, but I’ve never felt it all the way down to my toes.
Had we practice kissing, would it have been this explosive?
People are clinking their glasses now.
“Jesus, get a room you two.” The booming voice of a man resonates above the noise and music.
“Holy shit, Lindström, you’re going to suffocate the poor girl. Give her a chance to catch her breath.”
I’m not sure who said that, but that comment put an end to a kiss that is so potent, I’ll be ranking all other kisses against it.
It’s not a bad thing, because we were a breath away from sucking each other’s tongues. There’s PDA, and then there’s too much PDA.
Kaz pulls away.
I place a hand on my heaving chest.
I shouldn’t be this turned on in front of a crowd.
What is wrong with me?
His blue eyes catch mine. They’ve darkened to storms, causing my pussy to flutter.
“Do you want to stay for lunch?” he says. “If you do, we will, but… if you want to get out of here?—”
“I want to get out of here.” That came out breathy.
“Good answer.”
Kaz loops an arm over my shoulder, and we make our way through a throng of people waving their hands in the air, clapping, hollering, and lifting their champagne flutes. You’d think they were saluting a newlywed couple.
As we trail toward the elevator, photographer after photographer scrambles to snap a picture.
Kaz lifts a hand, stopping them.
They lower their cameras, like obedient subjects obeying the command of their king.
A niggling thought enters my mind at the sight of the eager paparazzi.
Was that kiss all for show?
Was Kaz that good at pretending?
Was that PDA a fuck you to his dad for coming on to me?
