Page 18 of The Photo
“Curious?” I ask, eyebrows raised in shock. “About my wrestling form?”
He hums beneath the chatter, clinking and laughter surrounding us. I’m stuck to this spot, trying to figure out what he means by that statement.
“Do you have any other moves I should know about?” he asks with a husky drawl. “That move was ruthless.”
“That was a one off. I don't make a habit of slamming into hot guys,” I clarify.
I subconsciously fiddle with my belt. He reads my bewilderment and steps into me, eyes alight with unrest. In a gentle motion, he strokes my hair, letting the strands weave around his fingertips.
“You think I’m hot?” A half smile dents his cheek ever so slightly.
“Isn’t hot the same as attractive?” I question in a low voice.
A shiver burst over my scalp. His hand drops to my waist, and his face dips closer. “You’re hot, Rowan.”
“Really?” Holy shit.
“I’m curious to find out how hot your lips are too.”
I gasp, considering the fact Noah Adams is going to kiss me. I think he’s going to–if not, he’s rakishly close for a conversation. I don’t blink or block out the unbelievable image of moist lips, hovering with intent. His face angles in preparation.
“They’ll see you,” I murmur.
He gives my cheek a gentle brush with his fingertips. “They have no idea who I am under this cap. Unless you’re worried someone will see you making out with a Canadian?”
My breathing accelerates. This is it–this is everything I’ve dreamed of. “Making out?”
“Making out,” he repeats.
I mull it over for a beat. “With a Canadian.”
“That’ll be me.” He grins.
“Why?” I ask, blinking too much because my eyes blur as adrenaline charges inside me.
“It was the photo of your feet,” he answers. “The self-scoring was accurate. They are a perfect 10.”
“You liked them that much?”
“As an interlude, yes.” I gulp at his admission. “I think I’m ready to see all of your body, but a simple kiss will do for now.”
I lift to my toes. “I might have been a tad harsh with your foot score.”
“Rowan,” he interrupts, his eyes focused solely on me. “You’re beautiful.” Prickles congregate on my back like paparazzi secretly waiting to capture this special moment. “I’m going to kiss you now.” He wets his lips with a flirty slow swipe.
That throaty Canadian timber of his is so erotic. It makes me want to carry on a conversation just to listen to him speak, but a kiss, hell, that's even more enticing. “Okay.” I breathe into him. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world attached to these.” I purposefully stretch higher, almost joining us together, licking my lips in preparation.
“What a charmer,” he quips. With that, his mouth lands, hard. I open my own to accept his velveteen tongue as it coasts between my lips.
Sweet baby Jesus, Noah Adams is kissing me, and it’s far from basic. It’s dynamite.
It’s warm and slow, caffeinated and smooth. I’ve imagined the flavor of his lips, trying to pinpoint how yummy they’d be, and low and behold, they more than meet my expectations. In fact, these commanding, yet silky lips have blown my guesstimating out of the water.
Who am I?
What’s my name?
I’m floating amidst the taste sensation, bathed in tingly heat and high on a wispy cloud of cologne.
