Somehow, in a past life, I was a very good boy. “You need to give me more than a good luck kiss,” I say, then wiggle my brows. “Which, by the way, worked last night.”
“I noticed. Five to three,” she says, recapping our win last night.
“So we’re the Fresh Face fill-in?”
She fiddles with the necklace one more time, bobbing a shoulder. “Yes. Is that okay?”
I could answer her truthfully with afuck yes. But some moments call for a little…gamesmanship.
Some strategy.
Like it’s a play I can see unfolding from all the way on the other side of the blue line, I scrub a hand across my beard, like I’m really considering this kissing test. “This would be for the cameras, right?”
“Yes.”
“For Caroline to run as part of her wedding programming?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice pitching up with worry.
“You want it to be perfect, I presume?”
“Yes!” She sounds desperate, and it’s almost enough for me to put her out of her misery sooner.
But I’m not that nice. “There’s something we’re going to need to do first then.”
She gulps. “What is it?”
I unhook my seatbelt. Unlock hers. Tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Whisper against the shell of it, “Practice.”
She trembles, a full-body shudder that I can feel. That I can hear. That drives me wild.
I pull back, pin her with a hot stare. “We should do it now.”
“Before we go in,” she says, jumping on board.
“Don’t waste a second.”
She grabs my collar, twists it, and tugs me close to her.
On the side of a busy San Francisco street, in the early evening, with the sun falling behind the horizon, I dip my face and kiss her sweet mouth.
I tell myself it’s just a test.
That this is simply the kind of practice a fake romance requires.
But nothing feels fake about the quiet gasp she makes when my lips brush hers. Or the softness of her mouth. Or the grip of her fingers around my collar.
There’s nothing false either about the way my mouth captures hers. Our lips slide together. My hand cups her cheek. My thumb coasts along her chin. Remy parts her lips for me, asking for more. Pulling me closer. Whimpering.
Heat roars through me, a heavy sort of ache as I follow her lead. Inching closer, kissing more, roping my hands through her hair, whisking my beard against her cheek.
She murmurs, then grabs my shirt even harder, a tight fist holding on. She picks up the pace, her mouth seeking more contact, her hands hungrier.
My greedy woman needs more, and I won’t make her wait for it. I give her everything she asks for, snaking my hand around to the back of her head and cradling her skull. Nipping the corner of her mouth. Slipping my tongue between those plush lips.
Then guiding her eager, roaming hands away from the neckline of my shirt. As I take over the kiss, I peel her hand from the fabric of my shirt, then spread her palm wide open, and place it square on my right pec.
Well, she was checking me out yesterday. Might as well give the lady what she wants.
