I lean into him before I can change my mind, my whole arm lined up against his. Then our knees bump, followed by our pinkies.
His head dips down, the scruff on his chin grazing my shoulder, setting off a shiver that should be measured on the Richter scale.
I tilt my chin up, and his breath skims over my lips in a ghost of a kiss.
And that’s all I get, a phantom touch, because he pulls back with a wry grin. I try to school my expression into something detached or annoyed or bored or anything—anything other than the disappointment churning in my gut.
He’s just playing with me. Clearly. And the humiliation drowns out everything else.
I turn away, pulling up my knees in preparation to stand. I open my mouth to make an excuse, that I need to find Stella, that I need a drink, that I need electroshock therapy to jolt the stupid out of me. God, when will I learn?
I don’t even get out a word before he grips my elbow, pulling me toward him, and slams his lips against mine.
I am not the kiss-a-stranger type. I’m not even the kiss-an-acquaintance type. But I keep hearing Levi calling me an icebox. And I keep remembering the one and only time we had sex, and the horrible day after when it hadn’t saved our relationship like I’d thought it would. I’d had very little interest in physical contact since then, and I hate that Levi still controls a part of my life even all these years later.
But this . . . Levi doesn’t have control of this because I’m not sure even I have control of this.
Carson’s hand smooths up from my elbow and curls around the back of my neck, pulling me even closer. He tilts my head back, positioning me just how he wants me. And though my body is a big fan of jumping on that bandwagon (and I totally plan to), my brain feels the need to remind him, “I’m still not sleeping with you.”
He huffs out a laugh, his head dropping down until I can feel the breath from his laughter singe my collarbone.
“Oh, Daredevil,” he murmurs. “I like you.”
I like it when he calls me that. My stomach swoops low in my belly in approval and anticipation.
This time, I kiss him, and his lips press back against mine so hard that a jolt of something coils down my spine. The hand at the back of my neck tightens, and his other hand rests lightly against my knee. I know he must feel it shaking.
I can’t decide if him being a virtual stranger makes this kind of intimacy more or less terrifying.
His lips open against mine, his breath fanning over my skin, and I think more terrifying, definitely.
But also so much . . . hotter.
He brushes his open mouth against mine, softly, once and then twice, like we have all the time in the world, and I expect myself to be grateful for his slowness, but instead it’s killing me. I want to dive into him headfirst, submerge myself in the way he makes me feel, and not come up for air until I have no other choice.
But I don’t. I let him hold me like the porcelain doll that I’m terrified of being because I’m even more terrified of how badly I want him.
He threads a hand through my hair, cupping the back of my head, and gently tilts my lips up toward his. After a few more soft kisses, his thumb runs across my bottom lip and electricity sparks from that tiny touch.
His thumb trails down to my chin, and he presses down just enough to pull my lips apart. His tongue darts out, tracing my bottom lip the same way his thumb did, and I grip his shoulders hard because I feel like I might fall even though I’m sitting down. One of his hands grips my hip in response as he teases my lips with his tongue one more time.
Then, like he’d been teasing himself too, he groans and pushes the kiss deeper. And my body is ready to throw him a damn parade in celebration. His tongue slides against mine, firm and demanding, but not overwhelming. Not scary. Yet.
He leans into me, pressing me back, and the crown of my head touches the tree behind me. I’ve only had a handful of kisses besides Levi, as sad as that is. And maybe it’s the bad memories that make me look back on those kisses with indifference, but I don’t remember his or anyone’s being this . . . good.
And because I have no filter, I whisper those words against his lips.
“This is good.”
He laughs. “I love it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
He hums against my lips, and it vibrates pleasantly.
“When you say exactly what you’re thinking.”
I pull away. “You won’t love it when I say something stupid.”
And the stupid would come. No doubt about it.
“Are you kidding? I can’t wait.”
I huff and push at his shoulder. My shove sends his back thudding back against the tree, but he laughs and grips my elbow, tugging me forward in response. Hard. I yelp, steadying myself with both hands against his chest, and my bent knee ends up strewn over his lap.
He sucks in a breath, and grips my thigh with one hand. Part of my brain is demanding that I pull away. Kissing a stranger is one thing, but this is something else entirely. But despite my brain’s warning, my body leans into him, shivering when the hand on my leg tightens possessively. His fingers trail down toward my knee, and then slowly, so slowly that it feels like a dance, he pulls until I’m straddling him for the second time tonight. This time, though, I’m not distracted by a wardrobe malfunction. And with him sitting upright instead of lying down, he feels so much closer in every way. Our stomachs press together, and I can feel the rough fabric of his jeans against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. And the fact that my underwear is the only thing keeping the rest of my bare skin from touching him makes that pleasure parade from earlier descend into complete pandemonium.