Page 14 of The Worst Kind of Promise
“I think I can survive two days in the car with you.” I laugh, though it’s nearly impossible to tame the quaver in my voice.
Kit doles out a blinding grin. “You know, I’m a pleasure to be around. Funny, handsome, conversational, a great big spoon. You’re getting the meet and greet without having to pay me anything.”
“I didn’t realize you were pursuing an escort job,” I joke.
“Oh, Faye. I would never charge you. You can have all this”—Kit gestures to his romance novel-esque physique, making a show of flexing every muscle he can—“for free.”
My mouth waters, and it’s not because there’s a half-eaten dessert on my plate. The pressure in my chest shifts a bit, now determined to crush my lungs.
“Please, you’re no Brad Pitt.”
“You’re right. I’m way better looking than that guy,” he drawls, snatching a strawberry from my plate and popping it into his mouth.
“I can think of some departments you could work on.” Lies. He probably exceeds in every department there is.
Kit stretches his arms above his head, making the hem of his shirt rise above that magnificent V arrowing down to the promised land in his pants. “I’m all for bettering myself. But I have to warn you, I’m more of a hands-on learner.”
He has the fucking gall to wink at me. WINK!
I roll my eyes as a diversion, but my resolve doesn’t last long when I get a quick glimpse of the dark hair trailing from his navel. Then his shirt billows back into place, and it’s goodbye, muscles.
“I don’t remember you being this cocky,” I tell him skeptically.
“That’s because I’m only on my best behavior when I’m around you.”
I snicker. “Is that what you call it?”
Voice molasses thick, Kit waggles his eyebrows, the lust in his eyes breaking through the surface, like a delicate fog lifting. “Considering you’d have a heart attack if you knew what actually went through my mind, it isdefinitelymy best behavior.”
Gulp.
I need to stop talking before I enter unsafe territory that I can’t escape—i.e. talking about how dirty of a mind Kit has and then asking him to spell it out with his banging body.
The conversation stalls for a bit, only the murmur of the café filling the space between us. I’ve been too busy picking at my napkin to notice that Kit’s been staring at me for God knows how long, an indiscernible expression looming on his face.
My spine immediately straightens, mental sirens going off in an obnoxious wail as embarrassment captures me in an icy grip. “Oh, God. Do I have something in my teeth?” My hand flies to my mouth, and I run my tongue over the front of my teeth.
Kit shakes his dark locks, little curls of ink knocking against his temples. “You have something…uh…on your face.” He points vaguely to my mouth.
“Kit, if this is one of your, ‘Oh, that’s just your face’ jokes…”
Kit snorts, then quickly composes himself. “No, no. It’s right by your lips.”
My finger gravitates toward one side of my mouth, but I don’t feel anything.
“Your left.”
“This is my left.”
“My left.”
“So, my right.”
I’m pretty positive I’ve touched every square inch of my face at this point, and yet, no “something” to be found.
“Let me get it,” Kit offers, and before I have the chance to screech and disappear into my chair, he leans across the table, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip. His touch stokes a fire deep in my belly, one that only grows brighter every time we’re together.
A dot of chocolate decorates his digit, but instead of wiping it off like a sane person, his lips suction around his thumb, and he sucks it with a skilled mouth. Oh my God. Is thumb sucking café appropriate?
