Page 82 of The Wild Card

My heart is pounding. “And?”

“I can’t.”

His hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his, and I stop breathing. “Tell me this is a bad idea,” he murmurs.

I should. I should tell him to stop, should remind him that this is fake, that we have an arrangement, that kissing outside of practice scenarios is definitely not in the contract.

Instead, I say, “No.”

Something shifts in his expression. Softens and sharpens at the same time.

And then he kisses me.

It’s nothing like our practice kiss. That was careful. Controlled. A test run.

This is hunger.

His mouth moves against mine with a certainty that makes my knees weak, one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip like he’s afraid I might disappear. I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that vibrates through my entire body.

He walks me backward until I’m pressed against the railing, and I don’t care that we’re in public, don’t care that anyone could see us. All I care about is the way he’s kissing me—deep and slow and thorough, like he’s memorizing the taste of me, like he’s been thinking about this for weeks and finally stopped fighting it.

His tongue slides against mine, and I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. He tilts my head back, changing the angle, and the kiss goes from hot to scorching. I feel it everywhere—in my chest, my stomach, lower.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.

His forehead rests against mine. His eyes are still closed, his hand still cupping my face like something precious.

“That wasn’t practice,” I manage.

“No.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “It wasn’t.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what this means—for the arrangement, for us, for everything we’ve been pretending isn’t happening.

“Crew—”

The patio door swings open behind us.

“There you are!” Sadie’s voice cuts through the moment. “We paid the bill. You two ready to—” She stops. Takes in our position. The way Crew’s hand is still on my face. The way my fingers are still twisted in his shirt.

A slow grin spreads across her face. “Oh. Oh. My bad. Take your time.”

“We’re fine.” Crew steps back, but his hand slides down to catch mine, threading our fingers together. “We’re ready.”

Foster appears behind Sadie, takes one look at us, and smirks. “All good?”

“Shut up,” Crew says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking many things.” Foster claps him on the shoulder. “All of them supportive and encouraging.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

The ride home is torture.