Page 81 of The Wedding Crush

“Is something wrong?” I ask, knowing full well I’ve just turned her on in public. Again.

The air between us smolders.

She sets the box on the table and raises up on her tiptoes. Her lips curve deliciously as she clasps her hands behind my neck and brushes her lips over mine.

The kiss is tender and emotional, communicating without words what we haven’t earned the right yet, to say.I want you. I’m in this with you. If you’ll let me, I could be everything you deserve.

It’s real for me.

“You’re worth the risk to me, Stefano.”

Just like that, in a single sentence, Avery rebuffs my worries and fills my heart.

“Yeah? How about the dangerous task of being my wedding date?”

The way she teases my tongue and fists my shirt in her hands, tugging me closer still…

This firefly of a woman drives me wild.

“Is the winery closed?” she mouths into the kiss.

Immediately, I know the dark, steamy places her mind has descended to.

“Is that a yes to being my date?”

She deepens the kiss. “It’s a hell yes.”

I wouldn’t dare stop to check the time, so I ballpark my estimate based on the time I think she arrived.

“Half hour, twenty minutes, give or take a few minutes.” Which, in the throes of passion, feels like an eternity.

It’s shameful really, what we’re thinking about doing in yet another public place.

This is a business.

One my mother just left, and could return to on a whim. One where my employees’ respect and work ethic could be affected.

But I don’t care because Avery Ellis wants me.

It feels only right to match my action with this answered prayer.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” She tucks her lower lip between her teeth, and it’s nearly my undoing.

I arch an eyebrow.

As she slips her hand under my shirt, I know I’m in the best kind of trouble.

“No one needs to know, right?” she begs.

I nod. “Right. I know a place,” I say, scooping her up in my arms, and transplanting us to the far end of the cellar, in the darkest corner between stacked barrels. Lowering myself onto my knees, I hook her knee over my shoulder. “Now, try not to make a sound…” I instruct, knowing good and well my request only makes it ten times harder as I drag my tongue along her most sensitive flesh.

In minutes, Avery’s hands are fisted in my hair, her lips are clamped shut as she falls apart in my mouth.

With her wilted against the wall, I straighten.

“Good girl, Pollyanna.” I smile.

I’ve experienced what those words do to her—what that name does.

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