Page 19 of Wrong For Me

I can’t remember the last time I was kissed like this. Hell, I don’t know if I’ve ever been kissed like this. Leo is pressing his lips against mine like he needs me to breathe, his mouth insistent and warm, his hands gliding across my back, the warmth of his skin lighting mine on fire.

A sudden burst of laughter from nearby has us both stilling. Leo pulls his mouth away, but otherwise remains close, pressing his forehead to mine while we wait to see if we’ve been spotted.

Soft conversation drifts to us from nearby, another laugh in the darkness. But then whoever it is passes by our rock and I can see a couple holding hands in the moonlight as they walk down the beach. Not my family. Just another man and woman out enjoying the night like we are.

“We should finish our pizza,” Leo says, his voice low and raspy, the rough, affected sound sending goosebumps up and down my neck. He pulls back, the movement seeming to take great effort, and I suck in a breath. It feels like the first one I’ve taken in hours.

I take a bite of pizza, trying to get my thudding heart under control. I shouldn’t be so completely wrecked by a short kiss. By the nearness of this stranger in the dark. By the way his free hand has drifted over to rest on my knee. I shouldn’t be wrecked, but I am.

“Okay.” I know I need to focus on something else before I’m tempted to push him to his back and jump on him to continue that kiss. “We need to address the whole ketchup thing.”

He laughs, sounding about as off-kilter as I feel. But he goes along with my attempt at conversation. “I refuse to hear any criticism of this,” he says. “Dunking fries is far more satisfying than trying to pick up a ketchup-laden mess with your fingers.”

“Well that’s why we civilized people use forks.”

He pauses, slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. “You use a fork with french fries?” He sounds horrified.

“Of course I do. I hate getting ketchup on my fingers.”

“That’s why you should put your ketchup next to your fries,” he insists. “Not use a fork! That’s just weird.”

“Says the guy who pours the milk first.” I realize I’m grinning, enjoying this little banter nearly as much as I’d enjoyed the kiss.

“Fries are not a fork food,” he says.

“Dude, everything is a fork food. I use a fork for fries, chicken wings, cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes?” He sounds aghast. “What’s wrong with you?”

“They’re messy! Messy foods should be eaten with a fork.”

Very carefully, he sets his now empty plate on the rock, turning to face me, trepidation written all over his face. “Rose, I’m going to ask you a very important question.”

I’m grinning like an idiot. This is fun.

“Hit me.”

“If we had stayed at the restaurant, would you have used a fork for your pizza?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He lets out a dramatic gasp, and I have to bite back a laugh. I hold up my hands. “I mean, look at this! My fingers are all greasy. It’s awful.”

“That’s what napkins are for,” he points out.

“Yeah, but once your skin is greasy it never really feels clean, you know—”

I cut off with a sharp inhale of breath when he grabs my waving fingers and takes one into his mouth. The warm feel of his tongue licking across my skin has every nerve ending in my body standing up and screaming for attention.

Holy shit.

He releases the digit with a loud pop. “How’s that?” His voice is a low rumble, something dark flashing in his eyes. “Feel clean now?”

No. I feel very, very dirty now, in the best possible way. My blood has turned to fire in my veins, every inch of my skin begging to be touched. How is he doing this to me? Affecting me so much with just the nearness of his body, the sound of his voice, the wet brush of his tongue across the tip of my finger? It doesn’t make any sense.

“You’re magic,” I whisper without thinking, then immediately feel silly. I finally tear my eyes from his, breaking the spell as my cheeks flush and I look down at my empty, forgotten plate.

But Leo isn’t having it. He cups my chin with a gentle palm, tilting my head up so I’m looking at him. His green eyes are dark and intense, his face close enough that I can make out every single one of his dark eyelashes. Up close, they’re longer than I realized, the kind of lashes most girls would be jealous of. I would need about four layers of mascara to get mine anywhere near as dark and—

Am I seriously thinking about mascara right now? This man has my brain entirely scrambled.