My heart bangs against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape. “What you’ll want to do is rest your hand on my cheek for something soft, or if you want to be more dominating, on my neck.”
“Which one do you like?”
“My neck.”
He lifts his hand and cups the side of my neck. His thumb brushes my jaw. “How is this?”
“Good. Perfect.” I inhale a sharp breath when his fingertips dimple my skin. “This is practice,” I remind him. Or myself. Possibly the cat.
“I know.” The words come out hollow, as if he doesn’t quite believe them himself.
He shifts closer and tilts my face up just enough that the world narrows to his eyes and the faint smell of cedar and sage. His breath is soft against my mouth. I try to be smart. Sensible. Remember the rules.
But then he whispers, “Is this okay?”
“You’re doing great.”
Relief flickers across his face before his gaze drops again, his thumb tracing my jaw as if he’s committing it to memory. He nods—just once. Barely. So I close the distance. My lips brush against his, and my heart stutters when he doesn’t respond right away. Just as I’m about to pull back, his other hand settles on my thigh, right above the knee, exactly where I showed him, and then he kisses me back. It starts soft. Careful. Like he’s still asking permission even after I’ve given it. But there’s urgency underneath—heat, restraint, a quiet hunger—that makes my knees go weak and my lungs forget how to work for a second.
Then, within seconds, he takes control and deepens the kiss. Not rough or aggressive, but smooth like aged whiskey. It’s slow and confident, as if he’s kissed a hundred women before me but still knows exactly how to make this one matter. It’s not the kind of kiss that overwhelms you into dizziness. It’s worse. It’s the kind that feels safe and electric all at once. The kind that sinks in slow and deep and leaves you thinking, Oh. So this is what I’ve been missing.
When I pull back, my lips tingle. I fight the instinct to press my fingers to my mouth, just to prove this actually happened. My eyelids drift open slowly, and his eyes, darker now, are locked on mine. My thoughts scatter like confetti raining down around me. A kiss like that. With Miles. How is that even possible? Some kisses don’t just steal your breath— they rearrange your expectations. And this one did exactly that.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” His voice is quiet.
“How many women have you kissed?”
His body stiffens just a fraction. “Why?” He glances at me, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Was it bad?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. That was…” I swallow. “…great.”
Too great.
I pull back, needing space before I do something reckless and kiss him again. His hand slips from my neck, and I immediately miss the warmth.
His gaze drops to the floor. Slowly, he removes his hand from my thigh and slides it down his. “One,” he mutters.
I’m waiting for him to add dozen, hundred, times five, but nothing. I reach for him without thinking, grip his chin, and tilt his face up until he has no choice but to look at me. “Hey. No.” My voice comes out firmer than I expect. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about.”
His eyes search mine.
“That was a really good kiss,” I say, softer now. “Like you’ve done this a thousand times.”
The corner of his mouth curves, hesitant but pleased, and my chest loosens. I don’t know why that’s what pushes me over the edge, but it does. I lean in and kiss him again. This one steals the air from my lungs. It’s slower. Deeper. His hand settles on my thigh, and everything else falls away. The world narrows to the softness of his mouth moving against mine—confident now, unguarded, and devastatingly good. Shit. My thoughts scatter. I pull away and stumble back as if I’ve been burned.
That kiss wasn’t practice. Or casual. And absolutely not fake. It makes you rethink every other good kiss you’ve ever had.
Nope. Absolutely not. There are no feelings. There cannot be feelings. “I—” I blurt, already backing away. “I need to go.”
Miles blinks. “Wait—Nora?”
“I can’t,” I say, rushing to the door and sliding on my shoes. “That was—this was—practice. Just practice. And I have to… I have to leave. I—I left my stove on.”
He stands, clearly confused and mildly concerned. If I stay one more second, I’ll kiss him again. So I bolt. Out the door. Down the porch steps and into the night.
My heart is still racing when I reach my car, lips tingling, head spinning, one thought pounding louder than all the rest: If that was just practice… I’m in so much trouble.
