“Brody, I think?—”
His mouth finds mine before I can finish my sentence, and every coherent thought I’ve had in the last twenty-five years abandons me on the spot.
Our mouths clash, and he kisses me as though he’s got all night and every wicked intention in the world. His lips move slowly, deliberately, tasting me with a patience that weakens my knees so fast I grab onto the door behind me. The devastating pressure of his mouth takes me by surprise.
And the worst part is that I absolutely love it.
His hands stay braced against the door on either side of my shoulders. Not on me, where I need them. His body leans in close enough that the burning fire from him pours over me, yet he keeps the smallest sliver of space between us, denying me the weight and contact my body is begging for. It drives me wild. My breasts ache beneath my tank, thighs pressing together as a deep, pulsing need coils sharply inside me.
I push closer, chasing him, kissing him back with a hunger that embarrasses me for half a second before his tongue strokes mine and the embarrassment burns away. I don’t care. I want his hands. His chest against mine. His thigh between my legs. Anything. Something. The ache builds so fast it scares me, winding tighter with every slow drag of his mouth, every rough breath he gives me and takes back.
He deepens the kiss, his mouth opening over mine, and I moan against him. Normally, I might be horrified—well, that’s if I had enough brain left to be mortified. His chest rumbles with a low, restrained groan, but he still doesn’t touch me, and somehow that makes it worse. Hotter. Crueler.
Then he pulls back a fraction again.
I chase it without thinking, rising onto my toes, and he lets me catch him. Gives me more of his mouth, his tongue, the scrape of his teeth against my lower lip, then withdraws again before I can sink into it. The push and pull unravels me. Every time he closes the distance, heat flashes through me so hard it ignites between my thighs. Every time he pulls back into a softer kiss, the ache turns sharper, needier, until I’m breathing as though I’ve run miles because this man might actually make me come from kissing alone.
And he absolutely knows.
I see it in the dark hunger in his eyes when I open mine, when he barely kisses me, in the flex of his jaw, in the way his handsstay planted beside my head like he’s holding himself back by force.
Then he breaks the kiss, yet his forehead rests against mine, our breathing rougher than before, uneven, and that single crack in his composure does more to me than the kiss itself.
“There.” His voice is scraped raw, which is deeply unfair because I’m the one whose bones have apparently liquefied. “Now the awkwardness of a first kiss is out of the way.”
I stare at him, lips tingling, thoughts scattered across his front yard like someone dropped a drawer full of cutlery. “That was your idea of awkward?”
His mouth curves, slow and wicked, as he pulls back. “Wouldn’t want things to be weird at the wedding.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Exactly.”
I inhale through my nose, which is a mistake because he’s still too close and I’m still on fire as his scent floods me, and I almost swoon and faint. “So this was… preparation?”
“Essentials.” His gaze drops to my mouth again. “You’re welcome.”
I shouldn’t be standing here wondering if a second kiss counts as poor planning or impressive commitment to the bit. So I lift my chin. “Good thinking. We wouldn’t want me blushing at the wedding.”
His eyes gleam. “Like you are now?”
“Yes, well.” I shift like I’m going to slip past him, but he’s still standing close, and my hip brushes against him before I realize how close he really is. And there’s absolutely no mistaking the hard erection pressing against me through his sweatpants. Suddenly, I’m the most awake I have ever been in my life.
My breath catches. His jaw flexes.
For one second, neither of us says a thing.
Then I glance up at him. “You’re right. Good idea getting that out of the way now too. We wouldn’t want that making an appearance during our first dance.”
He bursts out laughing, and I adore how he sees the humor in everything.
“Good night, Brody,” I say, aiming for a steady voice, a normal face.
“Good night, Claire.”
I take three confident steps down his front yard. My foot catches the edge of a paving stone, and I stumble, grabbing the gatepost and righting myself with the grace of a baby giraffe on a frozen lake.
I don’t look back, but I hear his breath catch.
