Page 35 of Flirting with 40

He stands, and the night chill assaults my skin again as he begins to kick sand on what’s left of the fire. “We should get going before we get kicked out of here.”

He reaches out his hand to me and pulls me up with a little more force than expected because, when I rise, I find myself off balance. Both of our natural responses kick in, and I brace my hands against his chest as he grabs my hips to steady me.

It leaves us chest to chest, the laugh falling from my lips dying as I look up and see his face inches from mine.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Flustered, I try to push against the more-than-firm muscles beneath my palms and take a step back.

But his hands on my hips flex and hold me in place.

“You know you’re going to have to get a lot more comfortable with me touching you if we’re going to pull this off, right?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“Because every time I touch you, you tense up like you’re afraid I’m going to bite.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“We’re going to have to kiss, you know? To sell the lie.”

“We kissed the other day on the street.” I stumble for things to say because, as much as I’ve thought about him kissing me all night, I’m silently freaking out. “I was fine with that.”

His chuckle is barely audible as he tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “No one’s going to buy that we’re hot and heavy for each other if I kiss you like that.”

He rests his hand on the curve of my shoulder so his thumb can slide back and forth over the hollow of my neck. Goose bumps blanket my skin as the waning firelight flickers and dances in his eyes. His smile is soft, seductive, and amused all at the same time.

“I guess not.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Then maybe . . .” His eyes dart down to my lips and then back up to mine. “Then maybe we should get the first one out of the way so we know what to expect.”

Such a smooth line.

“Maybe we should,” I murmur, my body thrumming with an anticipation that’s equal parts desire and exhilaration.

Such a willing female.

When his lips meet mine, they are both soft and demanding, and I forget this is an act. I forget that we are practicing, and every part of me falls under the spell of the moment.

The briny scent of the air.

The warmth of his lips.

The taste of beer on his tongue.

The touch of his hand as it frames my face.

The soft mewl that falls from my lips.

It’s the kind of kiss that you want to go on and on. The kind where you know that, once it stops, you’re going to come back to yourself. Then nerves are going to hit and your sensibility is going to soar, so you decide it’s so much easier to be under its pull than to slip out from beneath it.

But we do slip free with one last brush of lips, but he keeps his hands framing my face. “What do you think, Blakely? Do you think we could pass that off as being real?”

I don’t trust my voice to speak, so I nod while my hands, which are still gripped in his sweatshirt, relax some and my pulse races a staccato I’m embarrassed to admit to.

“At least we know we got something right.” His voice is low, laden with a desire that he isn’t trying to disguise as his thumb rubs over my bottom lip.

“Good to know.”

“It isn’t howling at the moon . . .” A smile slides onto his lips, and it’s just as devastating as his kiss.