Page 57 of The Wedding Crush

Twenty minutes zip by with us feasting on ranch-drenched vegetables and sipping Prosecco as he vetoes ninety percent of my playlist.

“What about Dinah Washington? A little ‘September in the Rain’ or ‘Time of My Life’ fromDirty Dancing?” he suggests randomly.

I about fall out, laughing.

“Sir, we’re not about to be foxtrotting and tangoing into this wedding ceremony.” I go back to searching through my music library. “At this point, I just need to make sure you can dance?”

I try—and immediately fail—not to look at his lips.

“Are you questioning my moves?”

He has the nerve to look adorably offended.

Then he’s rounding the kitchen island and tugging me up off my barstool. He guides me with his large, firm hand at the small of my back until we’re in the middle of the living room for all of Major League Baseball to see us. In a total GQ move, he taps and swipes through his phone, silencing the television, before a dramatic succession of drums, violins, and bandoneons fill the air.

My right hand is gripped in his left as he glides his other lower. With seamless movements, he guides me all over his condo.

I feel like a rag doll.

A hot-and-bothered one whose anatomically correct parts are currently throbbing with need.

Lord, give me the strength.

Suddenly, we’re back in the open.

In a quick and firm move, he twirls me out, and snaps me back until my body is molded to his. My leg is hooked over his hip, my chin nestled in the crook of his neck, our chests pressed flush and heaving against each other.

If he calls me good girl, I’m a goner.

As we slowly pull back, the look in his eyes dares me to be ashamed of my apparent newfound silver-fox fetish.

Why I thought this man could possibly have no moves is beyond me. I was sorely mistaken, and whatever that was… I want to do it again, faster and horizontal.

That’s where my mind is, descending to gutter levels when Stefano withdraws. Not all the way, just enough so that our faces are a breath apart and we’re staring achingly into each other’s hungry eyes.

I should pull away.

I should be the level-headed one here, considering we’re both healing from the worst kind of loss, and anything between us would only be hormones and flesh. But Stefano’s arm feels so good banded protectively around my waist. And I haven’t been held by a man, felt so precious in his grasp in…far too long.

So, when Stefano leans in and slants his mouth over mine, waiting for me to reciprocate, I do. I eagerly part my lips, giving him access to deepen the kiss. To taste my moans and feel how much my body craves him.

Like a switch flip, we go from torturously holding back to a mess of needy hands in gorgeous silver-lined curls—his, not mine—and breathless whimpers.

Good God, every inch of him invades my senses. He smells so good. Sweet and clean. Expensive. And his body is so warm and solid. So hard.

He’s all man.

It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed properly, and I don’t want it to end.

God, please don’t let this end.

But as soon as my prayer up in the air, as I lower my hands to Stefano’s waist and slip them under the hem of his shirt, dragging my nails subliminally over his back, telling him I want more, that I need more than kissing, he steps back. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and I see the apology in his dark, penetrating brown eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

A war wages in my head betweenwhat the hell just happenedandplease, please let’s go back to doing it.

My entire body throbs, aches for him, and he’s apologizing.

---