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You, my brain shouts, and it throws me for a loop. Where the fuck did that come from? I cough to mask the inappropriate thought that stole my ability to form an answer.

“Uh, whatever I can rustle up. I’ve got ingredients for BLTs, roast-beef melts, and egg salad. I can also whip up a stir-fry or soup and salad,” I babble.

Her mouth drops open before she recovers herself. “That’s quite a list of options. I almost feel like I’m listening to someone reading from a restaurant menu.”

I shrug. “I like to cook.”

“Are you good at it?”

“I’m not Bobby Flay, but I can turn out a decent meal.”

Appreciation sparkles in her sea-glass greens, and my body reacts with a swell of pleasure.

Her eyes drop to my mouth, and she murmurs, “I really should go.”

All of me suddenly doesn’t want her to leave. I move toward her, closing the gap between us, essentially blocking her way out. Instinct takes over, and my hand lifts to the side of her face. My fingers stroke the loose silky strands there, reluctantly tucking them behind her ear—reluctant because what I really want to do is pull her hair from the ponytail and sift my fingers through it. Tug it so I can pull her head back and explore the column of her neck with my tongue and find all the sweet, secret, sensitive places.

“Colby?” she whispers. Her plump lips are parted and her eyes are half-lidded, and they’re staring at my mouth.

I don’t need a navigation chart to tell me where this is going.

“Yeah?” I whisper back right before I tilt my head so my mouth lines up with hers. She emits a breathy little gasp that sends my pulse into overdrive. My mouth descends on hers. Her lips are lush, moist, and they feel so damn good against mine. I take it slow as I sink into their softness. My other hand raises, and I cup her face, my thumbs eager to caress her cheeks and jawline. Her skin is like velvet. My fingers thread into her hair, and I silence the little voice at the back of my mind warning me I’m sailing straight into a squall line.

I suck her bottom lip into my mouth, and she whimpers and molds herself against me. The tip of my tongue nudges her lips, and they open. She tastes vaguely of peppermint tea and lemon and something sweet and decadent but unidentifiable. Maybe it’s that hint of sugar cookies that always wraps around her.

Our tongues dance together, slow and sultry, and her fingers dig into my scalp. Chills cascade down my spine. My hands fall from her face and splay against the small of her back as I draw her in tight. Her body fits mine perfectly, her curves slotting into all the right places.

A moan I can’t control rumbles in my chest, and she responds with a soft cry trapped in her throat.

I want more of that. More of her.

She’s silk and satin and smoothness everywhere, and I don’t give a fuck if I end up wrecked on a reef. I’m utterly lost.

Fortunately, she’s got the self-control I lack, and she pulls back and gapes at me. Her lips are rosy-red and puffy, evidence of my mauling, and I’m burning to take that mouth again. My body leans toward hers, seeking more. Her eyes widen in alarm. I probably resemble a drunk who’s been on a weeklong bender or a predator who’s on the verge of devouring my prey. My brain reels, and my knees are struggling to keep my body upright. I’m definitely intoxicated, but not from booze. No, I’m drunk on Jackie. I don’t recall being affected like this before.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, but this isn’t like that. It’s not lust. Okay, it’s not pure lust. There’s something else there, something elusive I can’t identify because I can’t separate it from the other confusing emotions swirling inside me.

“I-I’m sorry,” she blurts.

Only when she starts to untangle herself from my hold do I realize I still cage her in my arms. Letting go, I straighten and take a step back. Guilt and regret rush in. I’m not regretting the kiss—just that it ended, which tells me exactly how fucked up I am right now.

Watching her warily, I drag my hand over my jaw, avoiding my mouth for fear I’ll erase the feel of her lips on mine.

Yeah, totally fucked up.

“Don’t be. That’s on me,” I rasp. “I was out of line. Not sure what came over me, and I apologize.” That’s a lie. I know exactly what came over me, and it’s the five-foot-two of curves, flushed cheeks, and mussed-up blond locks facing me. The woman I want my hands and mouth on right now.

Fuck. Me.

Brushing the back of her hand across her forehead, she looks away and heaves an exhale. “Donny would kill me if he knew what—”

“Pretty sure I’d be the one he’d come gunning for. And I wouldn’t blame him.” Not one bit. The thought of some bum putting his lips on my sister makes me a little nuts, but that’s different.

Is it, though?

I tug what’s left of Jackie’s ponytail in a gesture meant to be friendly, reassuring, but it ends up being awkward as hell.

She scrambles out of my reach and spins, head on a swivel as if she’s looking for something. “I need to go.”