Page 34 of Pucked Up Plans
Kissing got me Megan.
Kissing got me Lennon.
Until now, I wanted nothing else.No oneelse.
Until Tate.
Now, kissing’s going to get me Tate.
CHAPTER 10
TATE
Walsh looks like he’s about to kiss me.
To devour me.
Toruinme.
And I want him to do it.
Keeley.
It was the name that did it. I saw the change the minute it left my mouth. I have never not wanted to take something back so badly.
His blue eyes drop to my lips before meeting my gaze. “Last chance to say no,” he drawls, the hunger reflected in the husk of his voice.
Closing my eyes for a moment, the words tumble out uninhibited. “Kiss me.”
It’s been years since I’ve uttered those words. Was the last time really Damon?
The fact sobers me up quickly. It’s the only excuse for why I’m the one who steps closer to Walsh. Why it’s my hand running down his muscular, broad chest, a plate of steel under my touch.
He towers over me by about half a foot. His breaths come quickly, matching the erratic rhythm of my own. Only worries about Aubrey have had the power to deregulate my breathing.Certainly nothing sexual in the past five years has evoked a reaction so strongly.
Before either of us makes a move—him to deliver on his threat, me to make him—there’s a thud from the living room.
“No worries, Mommy,” Aubrey’s high-pitched voice filters in, breaking the hold Walsh has on me.
My feet rooted in place, all I can do is stare at him.
The way his eyes darken as he waits for my move.
His chest heaving below his T-shirt.
His hands balled into fists at his sides. Not in anger, but frustration.
Another thud sounds, completely breaking the moment, forcing me into action. Instead of reacting to the sounds from the other room where our children play, I push to my tiptoes, leaning both hands on Walsh’s chest.
“I’m gonna need a raincheck on the kiss.” My lips find the corner of his, a preview of what’s to come, after we take care of more pressing matters.
He’s unsuspecting, a deer in headlights as my lips linger longer than what would be considered chaste but not long enough to be diary-worthy.
“Tate.” My name is a warning on his lips. Of what I’m unsure. But he repeats it, more needy the second time. “Tate.”
The third loud noise has me running for the living room, Walsh at my heels. The slap to his forehead echoes around the small room, the only other sound Aubrey’s gasp.
“Lennon Victoria,” Walsh bellows. Funny how her name is also a warning, but in a much different way. The deep baritone causes her to stop moving, frozen in place.
