Page 83 of Off the Grid

For a moment, I panic at the clumsiness of his motions and the fumbling of his hands as they frame my face.

But it’s just the alcohol. It’s just Riggs.

And once I bury the memory threatening to besiege me, the crowd slips away. My dream reemerges but in living 3D color as I taste the beer on his tongue and lose myself to his kiss.

As I bask in the sensations it seems only he can evoke.

Whistles break through the fog of lust and the staggering sensations his touch has created within.

He leans back, a smile on his lips. “Change your mind yet, because if you need more convincing . . .”

“Yes. Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “You’re a good kisser.”

“Just good?” He scrunches his face up like a little boy waiting to be praised and it’s freaking adorable.

I sigh and give the truth. “Better than good.”

He throws his hands up and yells, “Victory,” as the room explodes in applause around us.

I laugh. How can I not when I have a drunk Riggs in front of me who is completely and utterly endearing?

He jumps off the table amid a raucous round of high fives as I stand there flustered with lips tingling and the apex of my thighs burning sweetly.

I’m breathless and desperate . . . yes, desperate for more of him.

But when Riggs turns to help me down, he freezes. His smile falters. He blinks a couple of times . . . as if he’s really seeing me for the first time.

Oh shit.

My own odd panic flutters up my throat as I realize that I’m standing here in a tight tank top and leggings—not my usual baggy clothes.

Riggs’s eyes darken. I expect him to catcall. To make a smart-ass comment.

He does the exact opposite almost as though, despite being drunk, he understands what a big deal this is for me without me having to explain a word.

“Hey, Gasket?” He reaches his hand out to me to help me step down and keeps his eyes solely focused on mine. They don’t roam. They don’t take me in. For a man who just had his lips on mine and would normally study the whole package of me that he’s made comments about me hiding, he doesn’t look once. He waits until my feet are firmly on the ground and the party starts to move on around us before talking. “You okay?”

I nod, my heart in my throat.

So many people in this room.

So much alcohol. Gyrating. Clumsy hands. Wandering, greedy hands.

I need out of here.

Now.

“I uh . . . I’m going to get going.”

He lowers himself so he’s eye level with me. “Cam?”

“I need to.” I force a smile and take a step back. “Okay?”

He just nods, returns my smile, and tries to lighten the mood. “I’ll be here waiting for Moretti-red-colored hearts to be colored on the calendar over me.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN