While I mull over the options in my head, both of his feet take one step forward. They’re in my line of vision now, as I stare at the floor. Only a few inches separate my bare feet from his boots. I focus on my wine-colored toenail polish in contrast to the wear and tear of his shoes.
They’re not the kind of clean and polished boots that you pull out of the back of the closet once a year for the county fair carnival. They’re the kind you work in. Real, hard, dirty work. Work that makes you sweat and your muscles sore at the end of every day.
The visual shouldn’t send a thrill through my bloodstream, but it does. Damn alcohol. Lusting over a man’s footwear is fucking insane.
His hand moves up to lift my chin. As soon as I meet his eyes, his hand falls back to his side and we’re left with a gap of space between us once again.
“First, you should look at me more. It will make you seem interested,” he says.
I nod and start a mental list of things that he’s telling me to do. He’s taking over this lesson on how to look like you’re in love when you kiss, and I’m just trying not to appear eager for his next instruction.
“And don’t lock your knees and stiffen your spine like that. We’re going to kiss, not give the Pledge of Allegiance.”
I adjust my body language per his suggestion. I’m not the type to submit or get off on someone else telling me what to do. Or at least, I didn’t think that I was. But giving up control right here and now, burying my urge to argue, doing as he asks . . . it’s a rush of relief.
I feel lighter and looser, like I’m tired of fighting him and I’ve had just enough to drink to test out what it’s like to give in.
“Your hand could go here,” he says in a low voice. It’s a demand disguised as an option, giving me the tiniest semblance of control. He points to his hip, just above his belt. Slowly, I lift my hand and place it there, slightly curling my fingers into the fabric.
Although my touch is light, the body underneath the fabric feels unmistakably hard and strong. If I didn’t know a single thing about him, I’d think he spends a lot of time in the gym. I know that isn’t true though. Manual labor built this.
Suddenly, a wave of chills takes over the skin on my arm as Warren’s finger grazes across my bicep. I hadn’t realized it until now, but the motion of putting my hand on his hip must have caused one of the straps of my dress to fall off my shoulder. His finger hooks it delicately and he drags it back up into place.
Instead of retreating, his hand moves to the side of my neck, firm and cautious all at once. Instinctively, I step forward another inch.
“Good,” he praises. “Now when I lean down like this,” he bends at the waist, and my hand has no choice but to slip further away from his hip, now feeling the muscles move in his lower back. “Then you know it’s almost time. And that’s when you close your eyes.”
Without hesitation, my eyelashes flutter and my eyelids fall softly, cutting off the sight of him and replacing it with puredarkness. I bring my free hand up to rest on his pec. My sense of touch is heightened even more now, and I count his heavy breaths as his rib cage expands and contracts. Even the rapid beat of his heart vibrates through to my skin and I wonder for a second if he’s really as calm and collected as he’s pretending to be.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he warns.
My lips part on their own accord just as his mouth meets mine. He doesn’t bother with a cute little peck to ease into it like I expected.
His tongue is inside of my mouth before I can draw a single breath.
I can’t settle on one singular reaction. Shocked? Turned on? Startled? Ravenous? Yes. All of those.
If the intelligent parts of my brain that can decipher stacks of legal documents were in fully functioning form right now, I could come up with a more dignified response than opening my mouth wider for him to access and fisting his shirt so hard that it cuts off the blood flow to my fingers.
With every swipe of his tongue and desperate claw of my hand, I drift further away from all hope of common sense in the moment.
That’ll do it, pull away now.
I think that’s good, no need to continue.
You can’t deepen the kiss any more than you already have, you feral monster. Unlatch your damn self.
I shush my brain and work harder to turn off my inner thoughts that beg me to stop. This is necessary research.
Fuck, it’s a good kiss. Agreatkiss.
Maybe we’re both just tipsy, but I don’t care. I feel like I’m floating every time he traces the outline of my jaw with his thumb.
When he threads his fingers through my hair and sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, I know there is no point in pretending like I don’t want to have a full-blown make-out session with Warren Farrow right now.
The heat of the moment turns up a few more degrees and soon, I’m pushing him backward toward the couch. When he bumps against it, he falls back and takes me right with him. Somehow I don’t stumble or break the kiss for even a second while he lifts me onto his lap.
With my legs bent and knees on either side of him, he grabs a handful of my ass with both hands and presses our hips together. A moan involuntarily breaks free from my throat as his fingers dig into my flesh over the thin cotton of my dress. It’s muted, seeing as how our mouths are glued together, but my eyes still snap open.
