Page 19 of The Last Kiss

The door beeps but not before he’s cursed French obscenities into my mouth and jangled the door handle so hard it might fall off. Wouldn’t want to admit that to reception.

That would kill the mood.

The door kicks open and we are through. I don’t know what I want more of, more lips on my neck or more hard squeezes of my ass and thighs.

More.

Just more.

The door clicks closed, quiet against the loud carnival I’ve got clattering in my head. Every touch he places on me sets off another loud round of crashing music and applause.

Who knew kissing could be like this? So all… all… all encompassing. I lose my train of thought as he detaches my legs from his waist and gently lowers me to the ground. I’m unsteady and he chuckles as he holds me upright. I meet his gaze. This should be so awkward. I’m about to get naked with a total stranger.

Nothing about this is awkward. It seems so right it’s almost on the point of alarming.

No, I don’t believe in insta-connection. I don’t even believe in fate, but there is something in that dark-blue gaze that sings in my soul.

And it’s just one night. I’ll never have to see him again.

“That shirt, it smells of wine. I think you should take it off.”

With a boyish grin he silently agrees, unbuttoning the remaining fastenings much quicker than my lame fumble.

I pretend to sniff the air—Okay, I’m not practiced at this stuff, I have to work with what I have here. “I can still smell wine.”

He laughs. It booms around the four corners of the room and around my faulty heart. Picking me up, he stalks two steps to the bed and launches me on it.

I bounce. Actually bounce. He clutches my leg to stop me from ricocheting against the ceiling, pinning me down. Laughter bubbles in my chest; insane, uncontrollable laughter.

It builds. Builds. Like a whistling kettle on a stove.

“Something funny, ma petite?”

“Nope.” I smash my lips together, but my chest is tight with holding it in.

“Let me give you something to sober you up.” He leans forward, catching my face in a delicate touch from such massive hands. I’m breathless as he stares at me. Truly stares at me, holding my gaze, searching for something, though I’m not sure what. I struggle and squirm, hating that he could still be searching for the sadness he thought he could see in me earlier. He holds me still, continuing to stare deep into my eyes. When I finally lay tranquil, meeting him stare to stare, he smiles. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“I thought you did that already?” My breath hitches.

A slow smile spreads across his mouth. “Not yet, ma petite.”

Oh crumbs. What was that in the lift, because it sure felt like he was kissing the fuck out of me?

Leaning forward, he skims his lips up my throat. His hand palms the length of my calf, running up the black, thick tights made for January weather and not sexy times.

I quiver as his hand trails firmly up my thigh, over the cover of my hip, waist, side-boob until his fingers arrive at my chin. The slow smile curving at the edges of his lip makes my heart flip like a pancake. I drag in air. With a delicate clasp on my face, he presses his lips to mine: one, two, three. Tilting my head, he steals inside, unchallenged to explore the dark recesses of wanton kisses while I want more of his tongue inside, hot and slow, sliding against mine. I open my mouth more, dirtying the kiss, relishing every flick and dive.

This kiss is everything. It burns in my stomach. Slow, leisurely, it has me clawing for more, fingers finding purchase on his smooth skin. And oh, what skin. I want to open my eyes to look, to gaze at the fine surface, but I don’t want to break The Kiss.

I’ve never been kissed before.

I mean, I have.

But never like this.

Languorous, it stretches time; spinning the moment until it glitters with stars, or maybe that’s just the lights in my vision from lack of oxygen.

Oxygen is for losers. Fact.