“Are you jealous, sweetheart?” God, I’d love that.
“You wish.” Ligaya rolls her eyes and takes another sip.
The sheen of sweat on her chest makes her cleavage glisten. I wrest my gaze away from her body and make sure we’re eye to eye. Ligaya needs to know I’m serious.
“The only people on my dance card are these kids and their mama. That’s a pledge, Ligaya. I know you don’t see us as anything other than friends. I respect your choice. But if I’m being honest, all the complications you’re talking about are starting to feel worth it if I could just kiss you again.”
Her mouth opens but before she can respond, all of Axis screams through the countdown. “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
Ligaya’s face is a slideshow of emotions. Confused for a moment, and then contemplative.
“Seven, six, five . . .” The club continues while we simply stare at each other.
Her eyes soften and she stands to position herself between my knees. I don’t hesitate, wrapping my arms around the back of her thighs, locking her in. Ligaya wraps her arms over my shoulders and leans down.
“Four, three, two . . .” When midnight finally strikes, Ligaya kisses me. I welcome her soft, eager lips. When she strokes my mouth with her tongue, there’s no holding back. I stand and cradle her lower back and nape. I lean in, devouring her deeper and harder. She tastes even better than I remember.
If I were a man who made New Year’s resolutions, mine would be this: Kiss Ligaya Torres and never stop.
CHAPTER 28
LIGAYA
Tristan is dipping me back and kissing me like he came back from war. My fingers grasp his hair, and my lips open to welcome his delicious taste. Our mouths fuse. The whole nightclub disappears.
It’s a kiss bursting with the pent-up lust that’s been accumulating for months.
He sucks my bottom lip before slipping his tongue inside my mouth. I match his penetration with my own deep, hungry lick. I can’t get enough of his minty, sugary taste. We angle our heads to deepen the contact. I moan at the pleasure of my breasts crushed to his chest, my nipples sensually rubbing the fabric of my dress.
When we finally come up for air, he’s panting as heavily as I am.
“Tell me we can keep doing that.” His voice is as rough as sandpaper.
“We can keep doing that.”
He dives in again, but the kiss is quicker.
“Let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t even spell the word “no” right now.
Leaving would also be a reprieve from everyone watching us, my friends most of all. I spent the night diffusing their excitable questions about Tristan. It was my attempt to lay the groundwork for the conversation about ourplatonicco-parenting.
Yeah, right. That kiss alone could get a girl pregnant.
I text Toby to tell him I’m leaving with Tristan. He sends me back a crude meme involving eggplants.
“Can you stay at my place tonight?” he asks while we wait for my coat. He doesn’t have one because he used a cab to get to Axis.
My curiosity reaches a new peak.
Howdoesthe father of my children live?
“Sure, I can stay over.”
A cab glides right up to the door when we exit. Inside, we hold hands and Tristan provides instructions. Less than ten minutes later, he’s helping me out of the vehicle.
I knew Tristan’s place would be simple, but I wasn’t prepared for a glorified storage unit. The front door opens straight into a long, flavorless rectangle: gray-washed floors, an oatmeal-colored sectional, and a print on the wall of . . . birch trees? Possibly asparagus? Whatever it is, it’s tragic.
