“You’re presenting some compelling evidence, counselor,” she whispers.
“I’m only getting started. But here’s Exhibit A.” I run my fingers through her hair as I kiss her neck, running my other hand down her arm, sliding past the short sleeves of her blouse, traversing her skin as the little hairs on her arm stand on end. I inch closer, my chest to her back, as my hand glides down to hers, palm touching palm. There’s a hitch in her breath, and it sounds like an invitation. And it’s one I desperately want to accept. My body heat rises as I move in closer and thread our fingers together, clasping her hand. She clasps back, squeezing tightly.
And that, right there, is another line.
Or maybe everything is a line, and I’m hell-bent on vaulting each damn one.
I kiss her neck harder, driven, determined to make her feel incredible.
She’s trembling in my arms, and that’s what I want. I nip my teeth against the flesh of her neck, setting off a chain reaction. She groans, a rumbly, sexy sound that fills the silence, that hooks into my body and drives me on.
I spin her around, grab her face, and drag her to me, pressing my hard-on against her body. “I know I said I shouldn’t kiss you again, but that was temporary insanity. I can’t not kiss you.”
Her lips part, and her eyes spark with lust. “You’re right. But I’m not going to take your word for it.” She grabs at my shirt. “I want more hard evidence.”
Oh hell, she is dirty, and I love it. “Then here’s Exhibit B.” I push against her, letting her feel the outline of my length.
She moans, and her fingers tighten around the fabric of my T-shirt, twisting it as she rubs against me. “I need to know if that law should be overturned, overruled, whatever you lawyers call it. Show me.”
“I’ve got quite a case to present,” I murmur as my hands loop through her hair, the lush, blonde strands sifting between my fingers. “Also, for the record, there was not a single chaste thing about kissing you. It was never pretending. It was always a turn-on.”
“A rush, a total rush,” she whispers, barely a breath.
Then I cross all the lines, crushing my mouth to hers and devouring her lips.
Kissing her hard, possessively, like she belongs to me. My lips claim hers, my tongue flicking across her delicious mouth, the taste of her lip gloss so damn arousing. It’s understated and sexy, like everything about her. The sporty tomboy has turned out to be wildly feminine underneath, and the scent of her, the feel of her, sends a new wave of lust crashing over me.
Because this kiss is different.
It’s not our first. But it’s a whole new kind.
We kissed in the park.
We pecked at the wine tasting.
We went at it in the diner.
We made out for the Jumbotron.
Every other time, there has been an audience. Every other time, we’ve pretended it was pretend.
Now that it’s only us, I’m learning it was never pretend for me. That I was only fooling myself. Because every time, I felt something.
Something unexpected.
Something that surprised me.
Maybe that something has always been there, and I had no clue until I touched her.
I can’t say for certain. All I know is I’m kissing her for real now, kissing her like nothing else matters beyond these four walls. My hands tighten in her hair, and my tongue explores her mouth, and my body craves more and more contact with her. More closeness, more connection.
Maybe their comments earlier about me being bad in bed flipped a switch. Maybe they drove me to break the promise I made to Summer outside the jewelry store. Or maybe they gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to get closer to her again.
But they’re not the reason I’m kissing her.
They aren’t why I’m scooping her up in my arms.
And none of that spurs me into carrying her to her bedroom, kicking the door closed, and setting her on the edge of her bed.
As my breath comes hard, I gaze at the woman I’ve known more than half my life.
The woman I took to prom.
The woman who’s been my rock.
The person I’ve depended on.
And holy shit, I really want to get naked with her all night long, damn the consequences.
I don’t want to do it to prove a point. I want to do it because I want her.
I want Summer Clarke so damn badly.
I cup her cheek, meeting her gaze, ready to tell her that this thing between us—and I don’t want to define it—is so much more than a stupid point to prove.
That it’s turning into a strange new sensation in my heart.
But she speaks first while she’s tugging at my shirt, pulling it up, trailing her fingers against my abs.
