"It would be prudent."
I can't help but laugh at his word choice. "Prudent. You want to prudently kiss me?"
"I want us to be prepared." His clinical language doesn't match the heat in his eyes.
I set my coffee down, hoping he doesn't notice how my hand shakes. "Okay. Prudent practice kissing. Sure. Why not?"
Adrian stands, offers his hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. We're standing in my living room, string lights twinkling above us, soft music still playing from earlier. My heart pounds against my ribs.
"This is just practice," I say, not sure who I'm trying to convince.
"Just practice."
His thumb strokes my knuckles—an unconscious gesture that sends shivers up my arm. I step closer, tilting my face up to his.
Adrian cups my face with both hands, the touch surprisingly gentle for someone usually so in control. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and my eyes flutter then close briefly.
This is fake, this is fake, this is—F...
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away, but I don't. His lips touch mine—soft at first, tentative, testing. Warm, firm, careful. My eyes close. The kiss is sweet, almost chaste.
Then his hand slides into my hair, cradles the back of my head, and everything changes. My fingers grip his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the fabric. The kiss deepens, shifts. Nothing tentative anymore.
His other hand moves to my waist, pulls me closer. I make a sound—something between a sigh and a whimper that I couldn't control if I tried. His grip tightens in response.
I part my lips, and he takes the invitation. The kiss becomes consuming, dizzying, completely unexpected. My back hits the wall—when did we move?— how?— and his body presses against mine, solid, warm, and real. Every point of contact burns.
His hand in my hair, his chest against mine, his thigh between my legs—it's overwhelming in the best possible way. My hands slide up his chest, around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. It's softer than I imagined.
He makes a sound now—low, rough—and time ceases to exist. There's only his mouth, his hands, his body. The way he tastes—coffee and mint. The way he touches me—his hands,thosehands, are everywhere, burning my body with each touch. Rough. He touches like he's been thinking about this. The way my body responds—like it's been waiting. Wanting.
Eventually—seconds? minutes? hours?—We break apart, both breathing hard. Our foreheads touch. Neither moves away. My fingers remain tangled in his hair, his hand still cradles my head. Our hearts pound in sync. I can feel his pulse jumping in his throat.
Adrian speaks first, his voice rough treacle. "That should ... that should be convincing."
I can't speak. My lips are swollen, sensitive. I can still taste him. My eyes are not sure where to focus.
Adrian steps back, physically separating us. The immediate loss of warmth is almost painful. His hair is messed up from my hands, his bow tie completely askew, shirt partially untucked. Unbuttoned. He straightens his tie with shaking hands, not meeting my eyes.
"I should go."
"Yeah. Probably." My voice sounds wrecked.
He moves to the door, movements unsteady. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looks back over his shoulder. Something in his expression—want, regret, confusion, all of it.
"Goodnight, Emmy."
"Goodnight, Adrian."
The door closes, and I stand in my living room, fingers pressed to my lips, which are still tingling from his kiss. I lick them, savoring the hint of him still there.
That wasn't practice.
That was—dizzying, yes. But a line has been crossed...a...
I don't let myself finish the thought. If I name it, if I admit what that felt like, everything changes.
The careful lines we've drawn, the boundaries we've set, the clean thirty-day timeline to comply with the Will, plus an extra thirty days to show authenticity. Such a neat endpoint—all of it becomes complicated.
