He takes a step forward and examines the work.
Then I remember the bowl. Of course, he’s an artist. He notices things.
“The crystal pattern is nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he says.
“You flatter me. Don’t tell the bride,” I say, approaching the dress and tracing the lines with my fingers. “But I got theinspiration from the topping on the pan dulce from the bakery. She mentioned she was a big fan of The Little Mermaid, which made me think of conch shells, which made me think about food—everything leads back to food—and then, pop! I had my idea.”
Oliver is now staring at me, and not at the dress.
“What? Oh gosh, I’m babbling again.”
Oliver’s perfect dark brows draw together. “No, you’re not. You’re letting me get to know you, and I like it. Now quit apologizing.”
I’m mildly taken aback. The combination of sweetness and bossiness makes my head spin a little. And makes other parts of me aroused. My nipples, to name two things reacting to Oliver.
“I get self-conscious when I catch myself oversharing. People like to say that I’m a lot.”
“If people can’t handle you, then that’s their problem.”
Only my closest friends say things like that. And sometimes, guys who are trying to get into my panties. But usually, those kinds of guys don’t put that much thought into bringing me food, nor are they ever curious about the dresses I’m working on.
His words make me stand up a little taller. “You know, you’re right. I’m cooped up in a studio all day every day, it should be expected that I’m a chatterbox when I see other humans.”
“Exactly.”
“Dammit, I like to talk. I should be able to express myself.”
“Hell, yes.”
“Thank you, Oliver. Thank you for giving me permission to be myself.”
“You don’t need my permission for anything.”
He reaches over and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering right there for a long time. His thumb brushes against the shell of my ear. My skin tingles. My heart races. Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he knows the effect he has on me,that I’m visualizing that hand fisting my hair, pulling it back, and lunging for my neck…
I ask, “Do I need permission if I have the urge to kiss you?”
“Hell no.”
I rise up on the balls of my feet and touch my lips to Oliver’s lips, steadying myself with a hand on his bicep.
Nothing will ever be the same after this.
It’s only a soft, short kiss. Closed mouth. Sweet. But when I pull back, the look in his eye is anything but sweet.
Oliver flexes the hand that’s still touching my hair, and now cups the side of my face with it. His gaze is on my mouth, and there’s a glint of my nude gloss on his bottom lip.
I reach for him, curling one arm around his neck. As natural as can be, Oliver’s other hand warms the small of my back, pulling me in closer.
This time, the kiss is long, deep, and my mouth opens to accept his tongue.
Instantly, it becomes clear Oliver knows what he’s doing. The first soft lick into my mouth is erotically teasing and leaves me wanting more. With a shiver of need, I deepen the kiss, probing my tongue into his mouth. He tastes wonderfully salty. The scent coming off his skin goes straight to my head—outdoors and clean sweat.
His tongue softly slides against mine, causing an ache between my legs I haven’t felt in ages.
“You should eat,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine, his fingers smoothing my hair.
“Later,” I whisper, angling for another kiss. “Busy.”
