Page 76 of Flirting with Forever

“Yes.”

He shrugged his shoulders and held his arms out for a hug. “Then I’m staying.”

His arms were suddenly full of Mary, and they both stumbled backward.

“You’re going to kill us both with these heels,” he laughed and went down on one knee in front of her to divest her of one heel and then the other. When he looked back up at her, her eyes were dark, and her lips were bitten red.

“Promise me you’ll do that again when I can actually show you how sexy I find it.”

“I promise.” His voice was pure gravel. There were about seven hundred places he wanted to kiss her right now, but in order to save both their sanities, he simply placed a chaste kiss right on her kneecap before he stood up.

“Water?” he asked.

“Sure.” She swayed into the kitchen, yawning and stretching her arms up over her head as she went.

John took off his shoes and followed her into the kitchen. She put a glass of ice water in his hand and leaned against the opposite counter, hoisting herself up. They held one another’s eyes as they both drank deeply, John finishing his entire glass and her getting about halfway there. They set their glasses aside, and Mary pulled her knees apart a scant inch. John caught a glimpse of hot pink and he groaned, twisting his head to one side.

“Play fair, Mary.”

When he looked up, her knees were pressed together again, but her eyes were impishly pleased with herself. She yawned again.

“Are you sure you want me to stay?” he asked. “You seem tired.”

“Aren’t you tired?” She cocked her head to one side.

“Well, actually...” Now that she mentioned it, he was tired. It was a couple hours later than he usually stayed up on a work night.

“Bedtime?” she asked, sliding down from the counter and holding out a hand to him.

“Mary...”

“I won’t try anything.” She lifted her fingers in the Boy Scout pledge. “Let’s just lie down for a little while. I’m sleepy.”

He watched her walk down the long, dim hallway that led to her bedroom. She disappeared through the door, a lamp flicking on a moment later.

John dragged a hand down his face, feeling like he was in some sort of soupy, delicious dream. He knew exactly how he’d gotten this far into the evening without realizing he was drunk. Because Mary made him feel drunk even when he was dead-ass sober. Her presence, her spirit, her demeanor, it helium-ed him. He was used to feeling loopy and spinny when he was near her.

“There in a sec,” he called down the hall before he deviated to the bathroom. He did his business and carefully tucked and zipped everything back into place. Just one more way of telling himself that his clothes needed to stay on tonight. John washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water, laughing when he saw his expression. “What a dork,” he muttered to himself good-naturedly.

But all the chuckling lightness was immediately bootheeled when he stepped into the doorway of Mary’s room and saw her curled up on the bed. She was over top of her covers, still in her pink dress, her legs bare.

She lifted her head to look at him and patted the pillow next to her. John walked around to the side of the bed she’d indicated and, painfully aware of every tiny movement, slid onto the bed next to Mary.

Instantly she closed the gap between them, one of her legs looping over his and her face nuzzling into the crook above his shoulder. One of her palms found one of his palms and soon her deep, even breathing dragged him under.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THEFIRSTTHINGMary saw when she opened her eyes was gray morning light filtering over her hand. Wait. No. That was much too large to be her hand. She wiggled her fingers and the large, broad-palmed, blunt-fingered hand she was looking at moved a tiny bit. Ah. There was a man’s hand resting on top of hers.

The rest came in a cascade of memory and information. John striding through the bar to get to her. The cheek kiss. His infectious joy. Sharing the barstool with him. The pressing, the tracing of circles on his wrist, his hand on her knee, holding hands as they basically sprinted home.

The kiss against her door.

Mamma Fracking Mia, THE KISS AGAINST HER DOOR.

Hands down, no question, the absolute best kiss of her entire freaking life. The second his mouth had touched hers, she’d been gone, every ounce of her focus on his lips. The building could have fallen down around them and she wouldn’t have noticed. He was a good kisser. John Modesto-Whitford: scowler, sayer of rude things, sweet, kindhearted, kisser of the lights out.

Seriously, if the man had sex the way he kissed, she wasn’t sure she’d make it to see the morning light.

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