Page 33 of Just My Type
And she does.
When Hannah rises to her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine, I’m done for. Gone. Dead. RIP me. The touch of her lips to mine ruins me, and when she opens for me, moaning as I swipe my tongue inside to taste her, I know that nothing will ever be the same again. Because Hannah tastes like tequila and sweetness and a stolen Vegas night and everything I’ve ever wanted.
I tangle a hand in her hair and slide an arm around her back. She winds her arms around me, and we tug each other closer, closer, closer until there is no space between us at all. We’re mouths and tongues and teeth. Groans and sighs and moans and unsteady legs as we hold onto each other to stay upright as the room swims around us.
When we break apart, we stare at each other for a beat. Hannah’s lips are wet, and her breaths come in soft pants, and her hair is a mess from my hands. The tiny part of my brain that isn’t soaked in whiskey knows that what just happened is huge and important and maybe even a mistake. But the part that is knows that Hannah’s skin feels soft under my hands and I might actually die if I don’t get my lips back on hers and I don’t want to stop touching her for the rest of my life.
“You sure can kiss.” Hannah’s words are slurred. Her lips tilt up in a smirk, and I lean in, taking her mouth again in a kiss that tastes like laughter.
“I love this night,” she whispers against my lips. “What other kind of trouble can we get into?”
I grin, licking her lower lip and chuckling when she gasps. “Stick with me, Gorgeous. There is so much more Vegas fun to be had.”
I send a drunken wish out into the universe that what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas this time.
I grab Hannah’s hand and pull her out of the bar into the crowd. She tells me her feet hurt and jumps on my back, laughing her head off, and then I’m laughing too. From that moment on, it’s all a blurry haze of more drinks and singing our way down the sidewalk and food truck tacos and I think, somehow, a missing shoe as Hannah and I hold onto each other and steal kisses and stumble our way down the strip, all the way to morning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HANNAH
Why did I forget to turn off the light?
It’s my only coherent thought as I claw my way out of sleep and crack open my eyes not to a forgotten overhead light, but to the actual sun streaming in through the window.
I immediately wish I hadn’t. I slam my eyes closed, gritting my teeth against a pounding head and a wave of nausea so acute my entire body tenses, ready to jump out of bed so I don’t throw up all over the sheets. With a few deep breaths, the nausea subsides, but the hammering in my head doesn’t. My mouth feels like I licked a bar floor and then stuffed it with cotton.
I whimper. My head pounds.
I breathe deeply. My stomach heaves.
This is how I go.
Just pitch my tombstone right here on this very comfortable bed.
Here lies Hannah Evans. Done in by…I’m not sure exactly what, it turns out.
My aching brain reaches for a memory. Any memory at all of last night that might tell me why I feel like I was hit by a truckseventeen times in a row. How I got from wherever I was back to…wherever I am.
Where am I, exactly?
I attempt to crack open an eye, sighing with relief when my stomach stays where it belongs for the moment. Unwilling to risk moving my body, I slide my open eye around, cataloguing my surroundings. White walls. Tan carpet. A single red heel lying on its side in the middle of the room next to a bright green gambling chip.
Gambling.
Vegas.
Not in Boston.
In Vegas for Jordan and Jo’s bachelor/bachelorette weekend.
I breathe a small sigh of relief that at least I know where I am and continue my one-eyed perusal of the room, looking for clues to tell me why I feel like I spent last night doing keg stands at a frat house.
Not that I ever actually did that.
I’ve just heard things.
Open suitcase on a luggage rack, something that looks like a piece of crumpled white paper. Jeans lying in a puddle on the floor. A pair of men’s sneakers.
