“So are you touchy feely? A hand-holder?” She scrunches up her nose, the freckles bunching together. “Or are you going to slobber all over me like a Great Pyrenees? I need to know what I’m signing up for here.”
I take a slow sip of my drink to center myself, then finally meet her eyes. “Why are you assuming I slobber?”
Her brows creep closer together, her eyes narrowing. “I just need to know what to expect. You’re lucky I didn’t flinch or judo-chop you when you grabbed my waist earlier. I’ve taken self-defense. I could’ve hurt you.”
I study her for a moment, unable to decipher whether she’s teasing me or genuinely asking. “You’re overthinking this.”
She groans. “You’reunderthinkingthis.”
In the short time I’ve spent with Kennedy, it’s clear she’s the kind of person who needs to talk things out until there’s a resolution.
But I don’t have that kind of patience.
Instead of answering, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and let my fingers graze her jaw. I lean forward an inch, and the mood between us shifts.
Eyes locked with mine, she whispers, “What are you doing?”
I tilt my head slightly, my voice low and teasing. “Showing you my PDA approach.”
Her breath catches, but she’s not the kind of woman who lets a man have the last word, so she recovers quickly. “I don’t remember asking for a demonstration.”
Slowly, deliberately, I trail my hand down to her throat—not gripping, just resting—my thumb brushing against the edge of her jaw.
Her blue eyes, always so expressive, dart to my lips, and she subconsciously wets her own. The bar around us fades until there’s nothing but the thundering of my pulse in my ears and the feel of hers beneath my palm.
I don’t know what my endgame is here. To kiss her? Prove that if people are going to buy this, buyus,she needs to be comfortable with me in her personal space?
She’s the one who closes the distance, pressing her lips against mine in a move that catches me completely off guard. It must surprise the hell out of her, too, because she tries to pull back almost immediately.
I find my footing quickly and tighten my hold on her throat, tilting her head and teasing the seam of her lips with my tongue. That initial hesitation, like she acted on impulse and doesn’t know what to do now that she’s here, vanishes as she opens for me. Our tongues dance, her mouth warm and sweet from her drink. She clutches the front of my shirt, fingers twisting the material.
Heat floods my body, the sensation pulling a groan from me. Though the noise quickly turns to a chuckle, because it occurs to me now that she’s trying to control the kiss.
Not today, sweetheart.
I nip her bottom lip and suck it into my mouth before soothing it with my tongue. I’ve never been one to luxuriate in kissing, preferring to skip ahead to the good stuff, but there’s no way I’m rushing this, and oddly enough, sex isn’t on my mind. All I can focus on is Kennedy’s soft skin under my palm, the taste of her, like honey whiskey, and the way she’s tugging my shirt, urging me closer.
I drag my callused fingers to the back of her neck, deepening the kiss, but a loud whistle startles me, followed by cat calling, putting an end to our impromptu public display of affection. Smiling, I pull back.
Kennedy’s blue eyes flutter into view, and in them there’s no embarrassment or self-doubt. Just hunger.
“Okay, so you’re cool with PDA,” she comments, her voice throatier than usual. “Noted.”
My lips quirk up. “Apparently so.”
In truth, I’m not big on it. Never felt the need to perform for an audience like I have something to prove. But with Kennedy? I have a feeling I’ll use every excuse in the book to touch her, even if it’s just a hand on her hip or my fingers brushing hers.
“Are you ready to get back to the game?” Jake tries to keep a straight face as he leans against the table. “Because as fun as that halftime show was, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cameron kiss anyone, and it’s really throwing me off.”
Kennedy’s body vibrates against mine as she laughs. “Reid, you sucked at pool well before you witnessed that. Am I up?”
I shoot my teammate a look, daring him to make a comment about how she may be up, but she certainly isn’t the only thingupat this pool table.
“Yep,” Tyler replies, flashing her a smile.
She extracts herself from my arms and circles the table, studying it with a furrowed brow. She bites her lip uncertainly, then glances at me. “A little help?”
The game drags on. Every time it’s her turn, I’m there, hands on her hips, tapping her elbow, murmuring corrections. She doesn’t remember half of it, too busy watching my mouth when I say, “follow through,” while I’m too busy pretending not to notice.
