Page 25 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“Yep,” I snap, refusing to elaborate, practically gluing myself to the wall to stay away from him.
“Lils…”
“You almost got me fired. You do realize that, right? Or is it hard to think about anyone other than yourself?”
“How did you expect me to act when you were grinding on another guy in front of me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Bristol. Maybe like a fucking adult? Maybe like a fucking adult who takes accountability for his actions and lives with the consequences instead of trying to change them?”
Despite there being plenty of space, Bristol crowds me, knowing full well that I have nowhere to run. “You’re the onewho started all of this. You’re the one who decided to light the match. I just didn’t run.”
My heart leaps into my throat, obstructing the words trying to take shape. “You should’ve.” I can feel the floor drop beneath my feet as the elevator descends several stories, and all the movement is making me sick to my stomach.
“Not this time,” he promises, weaponizing that rumbly bass that heknowsI can’t resist.
I gulp so loudly that it resonates off this steel-plated death chamber. “I know you’re used to getting what you want, but I’ll watch the world burn before Ieverroll over for you,” I mutter under my breath.
“Then I’ll burn just to get close to you.”
Why does he have to say stuff like that? That’s not something a fake boyfriend says to his fake girlfriend. Oh my God. Am I hearing myself? How has the best opportunity in the world turned into the worst possible experience of a lifetime? I can fake confidence in front of the camera all day long. Faking real human emotions is outside my pay grade.
The pressure in my cunt mounts to a heartbeat, and I’m one bad decision away from pushing Bristol up against the wall and attacking his mouth with mine. Sweat beads on my hairline, my belly swoops with newly hatched butterflies, and my libido rallies all my other hormones into action. I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like I can’t move. He’s staring me down, waiting for me to take the bait, teasing me with every lickable slab of muscle on his perfect, brawn-bundled body.
I have no control over what happens next—sensibility has left my mind and stuck a “GONE FISHING” sign to my skull. I reach past him, slam the Emergency Stop button, and cling to Bristol’s huge arm when the elevator rattles to a standstill. He grabs me like I’m as delicate as a doll, shields me with his body in preparation for the near-death experience awaiting us, andthe elevator gives a few clanking jolts before nestling itself safely between floors.
When neither of us go dropping to our doom, Bristol’s fingers are still secured around my arms, the color of ivory while they crush my bones. “Jesus, fuck,” he breathes, tucking me against the front of his chest, his heart thudding so painfully hard that I can feel it against my own ribs.
I disentangle myself from him, keeping my hand between us like I’m backing away from a rabid animal, and I use my other hand to yank down the rumpled hem of my absurdly tight skirt. “We need to set some ground rules with this new…arrangement,” I demand, disgust stilting my words.
“And you had to stop the elevator to do so?”
“Are you going to shut up and actually let me speak, or do we need to do this the hard way?”
What does the hard way entail? I have no idea, but it sounds threatening enough, and with how big Bristol’s head is, there has to be a chunk of brain ping-ponging around in there somewhere.
“First rule: no kissing,” I say, not missing the way his eyes drop momentarily to my lips.
Curse his delicious, chocolate-brown eyes.
“And how are we supposed to sell this fake relationship if I can’t kiss you in front of the cameras?” he shoots back, rerouting his gaze to my eyes and choosing to melt the legs I’m standing on instead.
Maybe it’s because this elevator is weirdly small, but Bristol looks dauntingly huge right now—a force to be reckoned with disguised in a tight shirt and ass-hugging slacks. Even with the added height from my heels, he still has to lean down to look at me, and the motion unwinds a curl of chestnut hair over his forehead. This elevator lighting isn’t even washing him out or anything! It’s giving him a stupid angelic glow.
“A peck on the cheek,” I counter.
“Are we saving ourselves for marriage?” he scoffs.
“A peck on the lips.”
“Akisson the lips.”
A growl claws up my throat. “Yeah, right. I’ll let your spit infect my mouth when pigs fly.”
He leans his shoulder against the wall, crosses his arms over the bulk of his chest, and,unfortunately, looks sexy doing it. “You do remember we have to make this thing believable, right?”
Ugh. Stopping this elevator was an astoundingly bad decision. The more I try to fight off his invading pheromones, the deeper I find myself falling down a rabbit hole of charisma, sweetened promises, and unparalleled, leg-shaking, eye-rolling skill that no man should ever possess. Would I turn down a sloppy makeout sesh right now? No, no I would not. Would I mind him mounting me on the wall like a picture frame? Definitely not.
He’s slowly,slowlycrumbling my resolve and trying to worm himself into the one place he’s lost the right to venture. My vagina. I’m talking about my vagina.
