Page 37 of Crash Course
"This is fun," she said. "I enjoy talking to you. You make it easy. Thank you."
"You’re welcome. It’s fun for me, too."
She peered across the table at him, those sea-green eyes nearly paralyzing him. Dang, he could look at her for hours. Look at her, talk to her, banter with her. All of that wrapped into one? Damned near perfect night.
"Is it wrong," she said, "that I might want to sit here all night?"
"Not at all. Believe me, I’m thinking it, too. In fact, I’d like to take you somewhere and do naughty things to you. But I won’t. We’re doing this right, Cilla."
With that, she half rose from her chair, reached across the table, and gripped his shirt, dragging him closer. Then she did it. She smacked her mouth against his and kissed him. Hard. Right in the B.
Did she have a hearing problem with the whole going slow thing? Her sticking her tongue in his mouth made him assume so because . . . hello? He wanted to be a good guy here and this?
Too tempting.
So tempting that he gave in and lifted his hand, running it through her hair. Holding her head in place, he swept his tongue inside hers, then softened the kiss, easing into a gentle heated rhythm.
Damn, the woman.
Finally, she pulled back and returned to her seat, her eyes twinkling. Cruz glanced around, found the crowd more interested in whatever was going on in their world to pay attention to Cruz and Cilla devouring each other in the back corner.
"I repeat," he said, for his benefit, more than hers. "We need to wait, Cilla. Then we’ll see what’s what."
"I know."
"Then why are you torturing me?"
"Because I find something insanely hot about a man who knows what he wants and how to take charge. I’m in charge all day long. It’s nice to have someone else do it. Sometimes."
"Ah. I see. And how do I know when ‘sometimes’ is?"
"You don’t. That’s what I warned you about. Welcome to my world, Cruz Blackwell. I think we’re going to have fun together."
7
At six a.m.Cruz’s eyes popped open after a wicked dream about one Cilla Randolph. After that scorching hot kiss that half of Steele Ridge was probably gossiping about, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Even in sleep she tortured him.
In the darkness, he smacked his hand around on the nightstand until landing on his phone. No messages. Should he text her? Say good morning?
Kinda early.
Although she struck him as someone who might be up and at it already. Shedidsay she had a trial starting. Still, he just saw her last night. He should wait at least twenty-four hours. Hadn’t that been his modus operandi?
Look where it got him. Thirty-one years old and alone.
Fuck it.
He shot off a text. A simple good morning.
Done.
Seconds later, a ding sounded. Heh, heh, heh. Yep. Early riser. Was it too soon to think she might be the woman of his dreams? He checked the message and found a photo of her with her silky, chin length dark hair combed to perfection, her green eyes sharp, and her tongue sticking out.
He cracked up. The killer attorney—Cilla Shark, the media had dubbed her—had a sense of humor. Everything about her made him smile.
He sent a photo in return. The one he’d snapped last week when he’d watched the sunrise while on a run.
That earned him a heart emoji and he called it a win. Perfect way to start the day.
