“Very good,” he murmurs. His nose brushes mine, and I focus on the flecks of gold splattering his irises. “Stryker?”
“Kiss her,” Stryker grunts. “Before she forgets how to function again.”
Archie’s eyelids lower, then close completely as I forget how to function despite Stryker’s wishes. Because, truly, howdoesone function when the love of her life wraps his arms around her, bumps his nose against hers, then meets her in a kiss that starts not with his lips, but with histongue.
My knees go weak, and I gasp as Archie follows tongue with lips, warm and soft against mine.
This… this is…
My goodness, this isnice.
Slowly, I work up the courage to take an active role in the kiss, sliding my lips against Archie’s in tandem with the press and pull his give.
When his tongue slides out to play again, I take a chance, letting my own slip out to tease his.
He. Loses. His. Mind.
His hand slides into my hair, fingers digging into my scalp as he moves my head where he wants it. His kiss becomes hungry, demanding more from me, taking and giving until everything around us ceases to exist. Until my world narrows to this, him, us. Until I’m dizzy and drunk on the taste of him—sunflowers and spring dew.
My lungs burn with a plea for air despite my heart being quite certain we could survive on Archie alone. What is air worth breathing for anyway, if it does not taste like him?
“Are they going to stop?” a voice in the distance asks, threatening to unravel my slow, thoroughly welcome suffocation.
“I hope so,” another voice answers. “Did hegrowl?”
“Yuck.”
“Ew.”
“Blegh.”
“Girls,” an older, softer voice admonishes. “It’s his wedding day. Let him enjoy it.”
“He’s enjoyed it enough,” a man’s voice, much closer. “We want cake.”
And then Archie’s lips are no longer on mine.
I whine as my eyes open, my lungs taking in mere air.
My gaze meets Archie’s, and I see my displeasure echoed in his face.
“Let me go,” he growls, a threat rumbling below the surface of his words.
I start, my arms dropping from where they’ve wrapped themselves around his shoulders, but his head cuts toward Stryker, and I realize he wasn’t speaking to me at all.
Stryker’s hand drops from the top of Archie’s head, and he grunts. “If you’ll recall, you interrupted my first kiss, too.”
Archie’s face promises murder, and not the swift kind. “Ifyou’llrecall,” he hisses, “your first kisswas notyourwedding kiss.” Then, he calls Stryker a string of four letter words I would not otherwise find attractive to hear a man utter, but on Archie’s lips? On Archie’s dewy, sunflower tongue?
Hot.
So. Freaking. Hot.
“I didn’t interrupt anything at all,” I note, somewhat breathily. “Why am I being punished?”
Archie’s hand convulses against my scalp.
“Collateral,” Stryker answers. “Also, it’s cake time.”
