Page 81 of Ruined Vows
She studies me a second longer, like she’s deciding whether to believe me. Then she relaxes, barely. “Yeah. It was. By the way, Edie might want a date with you.”
She catches me off guard, and I laugh. It breaks the tension, but the heat between us can fog the windows.
Her hand’s already on the door when I reach across and curl my fingers around her wrist.
She pauses and looks at my hand, then up at me. I don’t ask. I lean in, and she meets my lips. And this time, it’s not cautious. It’shungry.
Her hands are in my hair. Mine are on her hips. I press her back against the passenger door, and her leg curls against my thigh like instinct and survival.
She tastes like a juice box, and danger—like she wants to ruin me and can’t decide whether to do it slowly or quickly.
My hand slides under her shirt—just enough to feel the warmth of her skin, and the arch of her back as she leans into me.
She moans—softly, surprised—and then?—
She breaks away. Fast.
“Shit,” she whispers, breathless.
“What?”
She straightens her shirt, but her hair is a wreck. “I forgot—I have a thing.”
“A thing.”
“Yes,” she says quickly, already reaching for the door. “A very important thing. Calendar. Engagement. Something.”
I raise a brow. “You forgot a calendar engagement.”
“Shut up.”
She grasps frantically at the door, opens it, and climbs out before slamming it behind her. She looks back at me, and her cheeks are flushed, and her red lips are swollen.
“Thanks for going today,” she quips, and then she’s gone.
And I’m sitting there, hard as a damn rock, my hand is still tingling from her skin, and I’m trying to figure out whatthe helljust happened.
One second, I was kissing her like she was mine. And the next? She vanished like she was afraid of feeling the moment or the possibilities beyond the kiss.
I thought I was gaining ground, but now, I’m not so sure.
22
BIANCA
THE ART OF FALLING
Islam my door behind me and lean against it like it’s the only thing holding me upright.
Because it is. Damn that man, he’s under my skin, setting me on fire and making me feel things I’ve never felt before. Hell, I’m on the top floor of my condo building, my pulse is still racing, and my mouth still tingles.
What the hell was that?
I look down at my hands and discover they are shaking.
In one minute, we’re talking about seniors and paint. The next? I’m pressed up against the door of his stupid luxury vehicle with his hands about to breach my shirt and his mouth doing things that should come with a warning label.
And me?
