“Yes, I want to come back to your room.” He smiles, revealing those perfect dimples, and my pulse quickens. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think I have an unhealthy obsession with your dimples.”
“Is that so?”
I nod. “They just look so lickable.”
“Yeah? Then maybe we should take the shortcut.”
“I’m not usually a fan of shortcuts, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.” Need has short-circuited my brain, hurling all the usual rules out the window.
It feels good.
He grabs my hand, and we cut across the manicured lawn. “For the record, I’m very open to having my dimples licked, among other things.”
I huff a laugh. “I’ll bet you are.”
We turn the corner and the opening notes of “Let’s Get It On” fill the air.
Flamingo Boy smirks. “That seems just a bit too on the nose.”
I giggle. How can I not? It’s ridiculous. “I don’t think they’re playing it for— Is that a photo booth? I freaking love those things. We have to take a picture.”
He looks around, taking in the scene before us. “I think this is a wedding.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a wedding.” Most of the guests are on the dance floor in the center of the courtyard. The entire space has been transformed for the celebration with clusters of tables draped in white linen and towering floral arrangements. “And we’re crashing.”
Flamingo Boy gives me the side-eye. “I didn’t take you for the crashing type.”
“I’m not. Except apparently today, I am.” I pat his arm. “We’ll just take one picture and then we’ll go. They’ll never even know we were here.”
He shakes his head, but he’s grinning as he follows me into the booth, which has a variety of beach-themed props.
I grab one that looks like a coconut drink with a tiny blue umbrella and hand him a pair of hot pink sunglasses.
He slaps them on and strikes a pose, not missing a beat. “How do I look?”
“Good enough to lick,” I tease, though my cheeks warm, reminding me it’s been hours since I chugged that beer. Any boldness is entirely my own and can’t be blamed on alcohol.
His large hands circle my waist, and he pulls me close. We smile for the camera, frozen in time as the screen counts down to one.
“For the record,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear, “you look good enough to eat.”
Oh. My. God.
Tension crackles between us, and the instant the flash goes off, I turn to face him, our eyes locking. His thumb traces a small circle on my lower back, and my knees go weak as his lips brush mine.
The kiss is firm yet gentle, but it’s not enough.
He’s holding back. I can feel it in my gut.
Desire blazes under my skin, every part of me craving contact with this man. I press my body to his, stretching up on my toes to deepen the kiss. My tongue slides along the seam of his mouth, and his grip on me tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my backside.
Yes, please.
A sound halfway between a moan and a groan rumbles out of him, and a ribbon of pride unspools in my chest.I did that.
I part my lips, and his tongue plunges inside, sweeping seductively against my own. He tastes like beer and salt, and there’s a hint of heat, probably from the habanero. Honestly? It’s working for me. My core clenches, and I squeeze my thighs together, desperate for the kind of friction that will send me spiraling.
I don’t know how long we go on like that, but when Flamingo Boy pulls back, I gasp at the loss of contact. “Let’s grab our pics and get out of here.”
