Is that it? He’s looking at me like I’m some kind of enigma over the cats? It’s far from flattering. “Yep,” I say. “I still like cats.”
“Remember that time we were playing that game we like? We were on the floor in front of your fireplace, and Muffin attacked your hair. Scared the crap out of us.”
I tip my head and try to recall what game he’s referring to. A list of card and board games run through my mind, but none would have me lying on the ground where Muffin could toy with my hair—but then it hits me.
A dose of tingling heat whirls in my tummy. He’s not just talking aboutanygame; he’s talking about the game of all games that probably shouldn’t be called a game to begin with.
Who Firstis what we named it along the way. It’s a test of willpower, if you will. One initiates the game with a soft graze of the lips along the neck someplace. Or a testing, teasing kiss close to the ear or throat. The other does the same in turn, nibbling, kissing, enticing as they move closer and closer to the lips. Back and forth it goes until one—and it’s hard to tell which one it is—moves just enough to make full, mouth-to-mouth magic happen, enhanced by all that built-up passion.
I gulp and drop my gaze to my plate. If I stood any chance of compiling a useful question, it has vanished like the rabbit from a magician’s hat. My stream of consciousness is no longer a stream; it’s a pond at best. There’s no movement from one thought to the next, ideas coming and going. Just one thought. One idea. One entirely too compelling vision of Dawson’s lips on mine.
With him right across from me, the image messes with every sense I have. The familiar look in his eyes. The alluring scent of his aftershave. The sound of that low chuckle as he senses that he and I have just stumbled onto the same page. The other two senses, the taste of his kiss and the touch of his warm, solid hands, are there in recollection—almost as tangible as the rest, but not quite.
“I’m ready for my last question,” I say. It might sound nonchalant, but if he answers this wrong, it will douse the fire burning through me like a bucket of dirt.
“Have you ever played that game with anyone else?”
Dawson lifts his chin, and a smile pulls at one corner of his lips—just a millimeter at a time—until he hits me with the killer grin he’s famous for. “Never.”
It’s a moment that—were we in a crowded restaurant—one or both of us would call out for the check.
Instead, we nod at the kitchen staff, who removes our dinner plates and brings out our desserts. I can’t help but think, as Dawson pokes at his crème brûlée with what I can only call disinterest, that our appetites have shifted.
“I think I’m done,” I say.
Dawson’s chair scrapes as he shoots to a stand. “Me too.”
It’s a race up the steps and into our separate closets. I consider taking the pins out of my hair but think better of it, wanting to give Dawson greater access to my neck. Because there’s no doubt in my mind—we’re going to play that game. I rush to flick off my heels and reach for my zipper. Yet just as I pinch the delicate latch between my finger and thumb, a knock comes to my closet door.
“You decent?” His voice is low and husky.
I drop my hands. “Yes.”
The door bursts open. Dawson fixes his heated gaze on me as his impressive figure fills the doorway. Vest gone, tie dangling at either side of his half-buttoned shirt. He leans a forearm on the doorframe, then beckons me with the curl of his finger.
I don’t have it in me to be coy. This moment is a magnetic force. There’s no question or doubt. No if or when. Just action—two magnets speeding toward their destiny.
I move to him, and Dawson slides a hand onto my hip. He pulls me in with a certainty that makes me sigh. His warmth is everywhere, his spicy scent is too, and the feel of his strong hand at my waist is a thrill of its own.
He lowers his head to the bend in my neck and tickles the delicate skin with his heated breath.
Yes.
Goosebumps ripple up my arms like an explosion.
Dawson presses a soft, lingering kiss to the spot just below my earlobe. I remain very still, barely breathing as his lips, hot and damp, graze the curve of my ear. I brace myself, resting my hands on his solid, muscular chest. Here, I can more than just hear his shallow breath as he moves, I can feel it in the tight rise and fall beneath my palms.
Now it’s my turn. I lift myself onto my toes and slide my arms around his neck. I go straight for the angular corner of his chiseled jaw, reveling in the pleasing, oh-so-familiar feel of his short scruff on my lips, and place a teasing kiss there.
A groan sounds low in his throat. His grip on my waist tightens, but I’m not done yet. I explore the side of his neck with a trail of hot kisses, reveling in the familiar sensations. I barely slide my lips toward Dawson’s throat when he shifts, moving his hands until they cradle my face. He meets my gaze with a fire in his eyes that says he’s already done with this phase.
He lowers his head, hovers his lips over mine, and pauses there for two torturous beats.
Anticipation builds fast and deep within me, deep enough to spill over the dam I built to keep him out. But I don’t care.
I lift my chin just in time for our mouths to meet in a hot, demanding kiss.
Mmm.Waves of pleasure ripple through me clear down to my toes, confirming what he’s insinuated since we arrived. Hehasmissed me. Hehasthought of me. Hedoeswant me back.
