Page 17 of One Moment Please
That’s it, I’m a masochist! Kate is going to use me for inspiration in her next BDSM romance novel because her best friend apparently likes being insulted by hot assholes.
I should call another Uber right now. I should walk home just to get away from the intoxicating scent of this man who is bewitching all my good master’s degree in psychology sense.
Instead, I prop my hands on my hips. “I want it on the record that you’re the one who demanded to ride with me in the first place. And if you think I’m such a nut job, why did you want to share an Uber with me? It’s not like you can’t afford your own. And…you seem awfully concerned with my well-being for a guy who accused me of having Munchausen syndrome.”
“You’re making me fucking dizzy,” Josh growls, jamming his hands through his hair, disheveling it in a way that makes me think about running my hands through it when it’s between my thighs.
I’m a monster!
“Do you always talk in circles like this?” He breathes a heavy sigh of what has to be frustration.
I step even closer, like a mental patient being offered a taste of freedom. “Do you always approach women in public places and think being a dick to them could get you laid?”
Josh glowers at me while slowly dragging his lower lip between his teeth. “What do I have to do to make those red lips of yours shut up for any length of time?”
“Maybe you should kiss me,” I snap as a surge of adrenaline shoots through me.
Did I…
Did I just…
Did I just tell this asshole to kiss me?
Josh jerks his head back, and his surly demeanor is replaced with confusion. “Kiss you?”
I pull my lower lip into my mouth and chew on it nervously. Seriously, where did that reply come from? I don’t feel that drunk. Not anymore. Am I just desperate to be touched? To be kissed?
If so, my libido is clearly delusional because why would it think propositioning a total asshole like this was a good idea? And honestly, what is it about this man who just makes me say and do crazy things? Like eat a fistful of pie in front of him or tell him to kiss me in the middle of the street?
Either way, I’m done with the bickering. I’m done with him demeaning me and acting as though he has all the control. He is the sexiest, most infuriating man I’ve ever met, and I’m turning the tables.
I cock my chin and narrow my eyes. “Last I checked, kissing typically overrides talking.”
My response causes his puzzled expression to morph into genuine interest when I don’t back down. He fights a smile, but I catch a definite flash of a dimple on his left cheek as he steps closer, his eyes smoldering on mine. “I could do a lot more than kiss you.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “Prove it.”
He smirks, his gaze dancing from my eyes to my lips and back again. “Are you sure you know what you’re asking for?”
I nod, squeezing my single girl sparkly clutch like it’s giving me special powers. “Just quit being a dick for the first time all day and make your mouth useful for—”
“So much talking,” he growls and suddenly, our bodies collide. I suck in a deep breath as he grabs my face and plants his mouth roughly on mine.
My eyes widen.
I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I figured he’d say something scathing and send me on my way.
But he didn’t.
His lips are hard and unforgiving as he thrusts his tongue into my mouth. He tastes of smoky alcohol. It’s so heady that my body reflexively succumbs to him, begging to be drenched in his potent masculinity.
Josh’s hands leave my face, one wrapping around the small of my back and pulling me flush against him as the other slides into my hair. He grips the roots of my long waves and tugs my head back, deepening our kiss even further. It’s completely commanding and turns those feminist-shaming embers that burned before into full-blown flames. I swirl my tongue against his, my hands clutching the lapels of his jacket as I hold on for dear life.
God, it’s been too long since I’ve tasted a man. And honestly, I’ve never tasted one who makes me worry I could drown if we stop. I revel in submitting to him, something that I never even knew I craved. I want his hands all over me to squeeze me, to grab me, to turn me into his moldable putty of pleasure.
God, this is so weird.
One minute, I want to knock him into next week, and the next, I want him to take me right in the middle of the street. How can kissing a stranger elicit such madness?
