I hope he’s mine for so many reasons—first and foremost because he’s about to go for more moolah than the other guys.
And secondly because . . . I want to make him happy.
And this will make him happy.
“Going, going, gone. To the redhead in the second row.”
I double-pump my fists.
Ransom blows me a kiss.
Then Fitz smiles at me and winks at Martinez.
Martinez swings his gaze from Ransom to me, and his words from earlier echo in my mind, loud and crystal clear.
But did they ever really fade away?
Carnale laid a grand on the charity of your choice that your girlfriend won’t kiss you backstage if you win. I said she would. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.
That’s the question indeed. Will I?
When the auction ends, the guys are gone, Fitz, Logan, and Oliver having bid and run.
The winners, meanwhile, go to greet the players backstage. Ransom strides over to me, heat in his eyes. My stomach flutters, then it flips as he pins me with his gaze.
“So . . .”
Tingles race down my body at the way he’s staring at me.
Because that look in my friend’s eyes? It’s not coming from smack talk.
It’s desire I see.
It’s confirmation that the touches, the moments, the teasing weren’t one-sided.
That whatever’s been brewing between us is a two-way deal.
Want is written on his face, evident in his expression as Ransom cups my cheeks and whispers, “Would you like a thousand-dollar kiss?”
Do I ever.
“Yes.”
He brushes his lips to mine.
My breath hitches, and my world goes whoosh.
7
Ransom
I like bets.
I enjoy wagers.
And I cherish a helluva challenge.
But when I see Teagan walk backstage, I don’t care that much about Martinez’s smackdown.
Sure, an extra grand is nice. I won’t thumb my nose at that. But the money isn’t what motivates me.
It’s the look in Teagan’s blue eyes.
It’s the confidence, mixed with her warmth. It’s the determination, paired with her cleverness. It’s the way she found the loophole during the auction, how she made sure we’d win the top prize.
And most of all, it’s her.
All my reasons not to kiss her slip away from me tonight, and I’m buzzed on this evening.
On the fun we have.
I clasp her face, ask to kiss her, then I move in close.
And I forget.
I forget my lines.
I forget all the people milling around us, filling out forms, writing down details. All the noise and the talking. The clicking of shoes, the sound of voices, the music from the sound system.
All of that falls softly to the ground, then disappears like melting snow.
I dip my mouth to hers, almost touching.
There’s that moment.
The movie moment.
The one right before the kiss. Where the world slows, the camera zooms in, and the audience waits.
Will he?
Won’t he?
And I never thought much about those moments in flicks before. Never bought into them.
Now I get it.
Because I want to memorize every second of Teagan.
I want to remember how this first is going to feel.
To recall the anticipation I feel right now.
The desire coursing through my body.
The sheer intensity of my want for this woman. Right or wrong, lines or no lines, I want to kiss her so damn badly.
I savor this moment, but not as much as I savor the next, when I brush my lips over hers.
My world narrows to their softness, the taste of her gloss, and the feel of her mouth, warm and pliant.
She opens to me immediately, parts her lips. Invites me to kiss her more deeply. Asks with her body for more than a gentle, tender kiss.
Makes it clear she wants the now too.
As I kiss her, my head turns hazy with longing, and my body tries to insist on getting closer to her.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I don’t entirely forget we’re in public.
I remember.
So I kiss her as chastely as I can, all while wanting to devour her lips. All while wishing I could consume her mouth.
Because she tastes so fucking good.
She tastes like months of pent-up desire, all sexy and snug in a violet dress with a fiery mouth and a helluva mind.
She kisses just like she talks. With spice and wit. With confidence and playfulness. She nips on my lower lip, then dusts her lips over mine before we separate.
I blink. Swallow hard.
She smiles, breathes hard, runs her tongue along her teeth.
And then the moment tips over.
She lifts her hand, runs a finger across my bow tie, and locks her eyes with mine again.
She doesn’t say anything.
But her hand on my tie speaks volumes.
It says, Let’s take this off.
In a low voice only for her, I whisper, “Do you want to get out of here?”
Her answer is immediate. “I do.”
There’s no choice between her place or mine—mine is closer.
Travel time is a potential buzzkill, but there’s no avoiding the lull in the action. Like the seventeen-minute intermission between periods in a hockey game, the break can sometimes be good, and sometimes be bad.
