Into. My. Mouth.
Heat swarms through me as he chases it with his lips.
Sweet, tart, wild.
When he pulls back, his gaze drags across my face. “Was that okay?”
I dissolve into giggles. “Yes. Ohhh yes. But ask a girl next time.”
“I just did.” His mouth is shiny and wet as he smiles at me, champagne still clinging to his lips.
I push up on my toes and kiss him, sucking the tart wine into my mouth.
He groans and clutches me tight. “And I don’t want to ask another girl at another time,” he mumbles. “You’re fucking special, you know that, Francesca?”
My heart does a wild flippity-flop.
He’s special, too.
He takes another swig of champagne, swallows, then goes to offer me the bottle. Stops. Swears under his breath, and takes a sip—but then tips my head back and brushes his mouth against mine.
I open for him and the champagne flows over my tongue.
This should be disgusting but it’s not, it’s perfect. It’s magic.
His tongue follows, and I’m sure people having a three-way make out with a bottle of expensive champagne isn’t the weirdest thing that’s ever happened in Vegas on New Year’s Eve, but it’s by far the most surreal thingI’veever done.
I cling to him as the fireworks fade.
Far below, the magic of midnight quickly dissolves into just another night on the Strip. Crowded, noisy, chaotic.
“Whelp, it’s not my birthday anymore,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “You can stop being nice to me now.”
“Never,” I say fiercely, grabbing the front of his shirt. “Let’s go find something else to do to celebrate the first day of your thirty-first year.”
“You really know how to age a guy,” he says, laughing.
“So old,” I mock.
“I don’t think we’ve hit thirty kisses yet.” He curves over me, nuzzling the tip of his nose against mine. “And we still have some wine left. Plus I have more questions for you.”
“Like what?”
“Would this champagne be better with berries?” He grins. It’s a made-up question on the spot, he’s just reaching, but whatever, we’re just playing.
It’s sofunto play with him, to tease each other.
“I do like berries. Not my favorite fruit, but…up there.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Passionfruit,” I say immediately.
His eyebrows jolt upward. “That’s specific.”
“Have you ever had an Australian pavlova?”
“Don’t think so.”
