Until Benson dragged me away, I was prepared to stand behind her all night to keep any other guy’s eyes off her. It’s been hell posted up at the bar, watching them all undress her with their hungry gazes.
I almost kissed her earlier after we downed our shots. If we hadn’t been interrupted, I would’ve claimed her mouth with a searing kiss.
“Seven…six…”
Seeing her ex-boyfriend in her face, trying to put his hands on her was my breaking point.
I was moving through the dance floor looking to join her. I found her at the edge of it, struggling against that piece of shit, then I saw red.
“Four…three…”
I pull up short. She nearly bumps into me with a gasp that could be my undoing.
Drawing in a deep breath that does absolutely fuck all to stop me, I gently turn to her. Nudge her against the wall. Brace my hand by her head while my attention falls to her mouth.
She’s my best friend’s sister. The head coach’s daughter.
Everything off-limits to me, and it should give me pause. But it doesn’t. Not for a second.
I don’t care. I can’t. Because right now every fiber of my being is fixated on this moment.
“Two…one…”
Ten seconds. That was all it took for me to decide I’m kissing Eve tonight.
Less—far fucking less—if I’m counting every moment I’ve ever thought about kissing her.
“Happy New Year!”
Distantly, I’m aware of the people shouting and cheering. Lights flashing down the dark hall I’ve hidden us away in, and the music turning back up.
Eve stares up at me. She’s stunning, her expression open, so damn open. The depth of her beautiful eyes swallows me whole.
I take her chin between my thumb and finger, lifting it slightly. Her lips part and her tongue darts out. Fuck, I want to chase it.
“Happy birthday,” I rasp.
Then I brush my mouth against hers. She smothers a tiny sound.
It makes my fist clench against the wall so I don’t grab her. So I don’t bury my fingers in her perfectly braided hair and muss it up while I devour her mouth.
This isn’t how I want to kiss her. It’s light. Too soft and barely there.
I want it as hard and desperate as the burning tightness in my chest from being near her. I want her melting for me, and to hear how she sounds when she moans. For her to be gasping little pleas between kisses while she tugs at me because she can’t get enough.
I want to hear her say my name. As an urgent whisper. As a cry of pleasure. Screaming it.
She presses into me, hands splayed on my chest. A groan catches in my throat, swallowed back before I let it out.
Christ, it’s killing me not to touch her more than this. Not to slip my hand beneath this sexy dress and sink my fingers into her or fall to my knees and taste her.
We kiss longer than could be considered a polite New Year’s kiss between friends.
I want more, so much more, but she already panicked when we matched on Love Struck the first time. Every time since then, I’ve almost told her how much I’ve thought about asking her out, to hell with the consequences and the unwritten rules I shouldn’t break.
It takes all my willpower to stop kissing her. I pull back slowly, savoring every moment, committing it to memory.
Neither of us say anything. She blinks once, twice. Touches her plush lips.
