Page 4 of Wild Card

Her eyes are a translucent shade of green, currently swirling with confusion and curiosity. I inhale deeply, dropping my forehead to hers.

“You smell delicious.”

“Thanks.” She shivers, her hands clutching the sides of my shirt.

“Relax and tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much,” she barely whispers, licking her lips again.

Gently, I angle her head, brushing my mouth over hers. Her breath hitches and lips part, giving me access. The instant my tongue touches hers, the tang of peaches coats my tastebuds. I intended to give her a quick kiss, enough to prove a point. But all rational thought disappears. I frame her face with my other hand, running my thumbs along her jawline in the same slow rhythm as my tongue curls with hers.

Heat races through my blood as her soft body presses to mine, her mouth widening, giving me permission for more.

I deepen the kiss, threading my hands through her hair, feeling the silky strands against my rough palms.

I sense the guy stepping away, hearing his mutters as he disappears. But I don’t dare stop.

It’s been a long fucking time since I kissed a woman whose whole being captured me in a way I can’t get enough of.

Maybe never.

My cock stirs in my jeans, intensity growing with each stroke of her tongue.

I’m seconds away from lifting her ass from her seat when her small whimper reminds me we’re in public.

Reluctantly, I break away, kissing my way to the corner of her lips. “You fucking taste delicious, too.”

She’s panting lightly, her warm breath doing nothing to help my already pulsing dick.

I back away slightly, my chest seizing at the sight of her flushed cheeks and swollen lips. When her eyes flutter, everything else around me vanishes.

Pure fucking perfection.

Her stare slowly comes into focus and her blush deepens as she releases her hold and scoots back in her stool.

“Ummm, that was…”

I give her a few seconds to gather herself, hoping my dick will get the message.

“What’s your name, Princess?”

Before she answers, a guy from the station passes by and shouts, “Way to go on that homer, Simms!”

I tip my chin, giving him a finger flick.

“Homer? As in homerun?”

The beauty in her expression has been replaced with dread.

“You played in the game tonight? Which team?”

“The winning one.”

“You’re a cop?”

“Yes,” I answer slowly, knowing immediately it was the wrong answer.

She gathers her bag and jumps to her feet, swaying slightly on the wedged boots. “I have to go.”

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