“Tell me something,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, since I’m transfixed now.
“Is your dislike of mistletoe about its qualities as a plant, about your hatred for Christmas, or…” She takes her sweet time, licking her lips and scrambling my brain as she adds in a throaty purr, “Or is it about kissing?”
Wait. What? That doesn’t compute. “Hold on. What are you talking about?”
She shoots me the most challenging stare in the history of Christmas bets. “Be honest. You’re not any good at it.”
“Good at what?” I ask, but I think I know what she’s saying, and she’s poked the bear.
“This is a safe space.” She glances furtively left and right, playing up the secretive nature of this convo even though it’s only us here. “You can say it—kissing. You’re not any good at kissing, right? That’s also why you’re so afraid to date.”
Oh, those are fighting words. I square my shoulders. Stand taller. “Want to bet?”
“You don’t stick to your bets.”
“I’ll stick to this one,” I say, all hot and bothered under the collar.
“Fine. I’ll bet you’re not any good at it.”
“I bet I am.”
“Right. Prove it.”
It. Is. On.
I lift a hand and cup her cheek. Her breath hitches.For one short moment, we lock eyes. Searching for permission, perhaps? I slide a thumb down her soft skin. She shudders. “Ready, sweetheart?”
Her eyes flicker with unchecked excitement but also questions. I don’t move as she seems to war with herself, dragging her teeth along her bottom lip. The questions must vanish since her eyes flare with heat, and she whispers a needy, “Yes.”
With the gauntlet thrown, I dip my face to hers, but I don’t kiss her. Not yet. I wait, my mouth millimeters from hers, till I hear that tell-tale whoosh of her breath. A tiny gasp. I notice the rise and fall of her shoulders, and the subtle way she eases her body closer to mine.
Yes, fuck yes. Isla wants to be kissed as much as I want to kiss her.
I brush my thumb across her lower lip. A murmur escapes her, and that’s my cue. I drop my mouth to hers.
For the first time, I taste her sweetness—she tastes like cherries as I brush my lips to hers in a soft, chaste kiss. The kind you’d give a first date when your friends catch you under the mistletoe at a holiday party. It’s not a make-out kiss. It’s not a closed-door kiss. It’s the kind of kiss you give somebody in public.
Except, the sounds she makes feel private and just for me. Soft, sexy murmurs as I flick the tip of my tongue along the seam of her mouth. Needy breaths as I coast my mouth against hers. She parts her lips, then inches closer, her body pressed against my chest. Yes, that’s not subtle at all, and I love it. I love the way she’s soft and pliant as my lips explore hers for a few mind-bending seconds.
I don’t want to let go.
Her fingers tiptoe up my shirt, curling around the collar of it. That, right there, I will remember forever.Herwant. My tongue flicks against her mouth, and I catch her gasp. I slide my fingers from her jaw, past her ear, to her lush hair. I slide them through it while she grips harder, twists the fabric more fiercely.
I twirl a few strands of her hair around my finger as our tongues skate together, as our murmurs fill the silence. She slides even closer to me, and I reach my other hand around her waist, pressing it gently to her back, eager to hold her against me all night long.
She arches into me, and the way she responds is frying my brain. It’s sending all my senses into overdrive as want—deep and powerful—floods my body.
Our lips coast together again, and again, and images of how this night might go snap temptingly before my eyes.
But I can’t give in. If I keep this up, I won’t just be kissing her all night. I’ll be asking to take her home. And I can’t do that. Not to this woman I’m starting to actually care for. Not when I’m destined to fail. She deserves better than a broken guy.
Somehow, I manage to let go, breaking contact at last.
My head’s a fog. It’s hazy with thoughts I’m trying to deny.
With the kiss broken, my gaze sweeps down her face. Her cheeks are flush. Her eyes are glossy.
