No caution.
No little voice reminding me that kissing strangers at work is generally frowned upon.
There was only the overwhelming need to know what he tasted like.
Which sounds completely unhinged when I think about it for more than five seconds.
The weirdest part?
My skin had been burning the entire time. Not painful. Not exactly. More like a fever simmering beneath my skin. Starting somewhere near my right thigh, crawling up my spine, and spreading through the rest of my body until every nerve ending felt too awake.
I blame adrenaline.
Or hormones.
Or temporary insanity.
Any explanation is better than the alternative.
Didn’t help that he was tattooed, dangerous-looking, and unfortunately very enthusiastic about the whole thing.
After recovering from my temporary lapse in judgment, I looked up his name.
John Smith.
I immediately concluded it was fake.
It was too clean. Too forgettable. A name specifically designed to be searched and find nothing.
Which meant he was either a spy, a serial killer, or both.
I snort at the thought of John Smith and immediately feel guilty.
It took Casey nearly dying for me to finally let some of my walls down.
Yet somehow tonight I kissed a complete stranger at work.
A complete stranger.
Actually, that's not entirely true.
I'd seen him before.
Outside my apartment.
Watching.
Being mysterious and annoyingly attractive.
Which somehow doesn't make the situation better.
If anything, it makes it worse.
Because the scary part isn't that I kissed him.
The scary part is that I wanted to.
For years, I was focused. Disciplined. Working toward a plan.
