And instead it’s Drew.
Drew with his rough, blue-collar hands.
Drew with his deep voice and those stupid cut-off hoodies.
Drew, who should feel all wrong and somehow doesn’t.
His hand stays at the back of my neck, holding me there without making me stay. The other arm tightens around my waist, big and warm and certain, and my body answers him in some deep, elemental feminine way I do not appreciate at all.
My nipples harden instantly under the thin cotton of his old shirt.
My stomach drops.
Heat pools low and sudden and humiliating.
A hungry little ache flickers awake between my thighs that has absolutely no business existing in the middle of heartbreak.
I want more.
That’s the worst part.
I want more.
More of his mouth.
More of the heat.
More of the rough edge under all that control.
And yet I don’t.
Or maybe I do and I hate myself for it.
Maybe it’s both.
My fingers clutch at his shirtfront, twisting into the soft cotton over his chest. He makes a sound low in his throat—deep, rough, almost startled—and it shoots another pulse of heat through me so intense I could cry over it.
Then he kisses me deeper.
Not frantic.
Not greedy.
Just enough to make sure I feel all of him.
The strength he’s holding back.
The hunger he’s trying very hard not to turn loose on a girl who is still bleeding for another man.
That restraint is somehow sexier than if he’d lost control.
It makes the kiss feel more dangerous.
More real.
And when he finally pulls back, he only goes an inch.
Barely enough to breathe.
