Still Not Over You(29)

This man is lethal. Even so early in the day.

His hair is a tousled, boyish mess, his fierce blue eyes drowsy and half-lidded, and despite his annoyance it’s obvious he’s not wholly awake yet.

Milah recovers before me, and puts on a coy little pink-sugar smirk before sauntering close to him with a little switch of her hips. “Landy,” she purrs. “There you are. I came. Just like I promised.” Her smirk blends with practiced ease into a little pout. “I’d hoped you’d come to meet me. Instead I get your hired girl insulting me and pretending to be your girlfriend. If she's into standup, she really needs to work on her act.”

Landon’s eyes widen, then narrow, darting to me. Almost accusing.

Crap again. Crap crap crap.

There’s only one way to salvage this.

They say when your car loses control and goes into a swerve, you’re supposed to lean into it to avoid a crash. Right now, I’ve got to lean into this, and hope Landon plays along.

I square my shoulders and stride forward as boldly as I can. My heart’s beating as hard as my firm steps, but I walk right up to Landon, shoulder Milah aside – with a touch of satisfaction for her offended gasp – and plant my hands right on Landon’s inked chest.

There’s just a second to savor the feel of masculine heat under my palms, the sensation of soft, curling chest hair threading between my fingers, the sudden liquefaction that starts in the pit of my stomach but curls and pulls lower and tighter.

A second later, I stretch up on my toes and kiss him.

I’m scared.

Petrified in all the most wonderful, delicious, taboo ways, and it makes me a little wild.

Wild enough to kiss him harder. Wild enough that I tilt my head and lock my lips to his and dare, for just a second, to demand what I’ve been longing after all these years. What's been pent up since the second I made a huge mistake by showing up here.

One sweet breath. I just want him to kiss me back for that, even if this explodes in my face later and he hates me for the rest of our lives.

I just want to feel him soften for me. Just once. Just today.

His chest is hard as a steel plate under my palms, rigid with tension. His mouth is firm. Unyielding.

Please, I beg, closing my eyes. Please don’t push me away. Please don’t humiliate me in front of her. Please don’t reject me.

The next three seconds of nothingness, of my mouth on his and no response, last forever.

But the moment when his lips part against mine, when his hands clamp firmly on my hips, time stops.

Whatever control I’d had when I’d caught him off guard is gone. He drags me in close, pulling me into the heat of his body, enfolding me in that raw brute strength that makes me feel so small, that ignites me with the thrill of danger and the pure and utter certainty that he’d never, ever hurt me.

Not when his mouth is this hot on mine. Not when his tongue tangles and searches, exploring so deep. Definitely not when the low groan in the back of his throat is the only warning I have before he takes complete command of the kiss.

And of me.

I’m caught in a pure tempest, a thousand little impressions coming together into a single slow moving heat storm. The tingling scratch of his beard against my lips, my cheeks.

The points of his fingertips dig into my hips, just enough to make my body throb, my thighs aching and something deep starting to pulse low and fast in my flesh.

The impression of powerful sinew moving against me, flexing under my palms like stroking a great beast. The hard ridges of his stomach and rib cage crushing against my breasts, making me painfully aware of their weight and fullness and sensitivity.

And the feeling of being possessed.

Of being taken.

Of being claimed.

He dominates my lips with languid, stroking caresses, his tongue flicking and teasing and tracing in sweet dizzy sparks, only to go deeper with shallower hot, wet dips. Just suggestive enough to feel almost too intimate, too knowing, as if that deviant tongue already knew every depth of my body, and just where to touch to light me up.

If this were one of my books, I'd say he's fucking my tongue with his, and God am I loving every second.

I’d only meant this to save face, but I’ve well and truly screwed myself. It's too late.

This kiss is everything I’ve ever wanted.

And it’s not real.

He’s not mine.

And I can’t ever have this again.





*



My eyes fly open after an eternity that lasts no more than sixty seconds.

If the sudden stab of pain in my chest hadn’t stopped us, Milah would have. She clears her throat sulkily, a reminder that she’s still there, and Landon and I jerk away from each other with mutual gasps.

I stare up at him, my breaths burning in and out of me, my mouth aching and pulsing with the lingering pressure of his lips. His mouth is slightly red.

I can’t help thinking I did that. I can't help being proud.

His eyes are dilated, full of the storms we’d kindled. He wasn’t faking it, I think.

Maybe.

There’s something there. Something building.

But Milah interrupts, grumbling and folding her arms over her chest, her voice small in that sort of staged little-girl way that fits her flimsy innocent public persona. “Well, shit. So, the two of you are really together?”