Page 427 of One More Kiss

VADA

I’m prettysure I need CPR or some kind of life-saving equipment.

I can’t seem to catch my breath, even though I’m breathing just fine, but the way he just kissed me and then walked away has my mind reeling and my body confused as hell.

His lips were so warm and inviting, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to pull away, and that’s even more confusing to me than I like admitting. However, I can’t deny the way his kiss affected me. The way his body pressed against mine or how my body responded like I was some desperate sex-deprived woman.

I’m not, by the way. Stupid, traitorous body.

I’m still trying to catch my breath when I leave and walk out the back door. Quickly glancing around to make sure Henry isn’t following me again, I walk the garden path and head inside the cottage.

I don’t have time to think about Ethan and that kiss, I remind myself.

I don’t have time to analyze the way that kiss made me feel,I also remind myself.

But fuck. It was a really good kiss.

But why did he kiss me? And why did I kiss him back?

Ugh! How dare he kiss me like that!

My mind is all over the place, and I can’t keep up with my own thoughts. His proposal repeats in my head. I’m trying to forget his offer while talking myself into considering it. Contradiction plagues me. Would it really be so bad to have one night of fun while I’m here?

What am I even saying?

I palm my forehead, trying to smack the oxygen back into my brain.

This man is making me second-guess everything I believe, and it’s driving me absolutely crazy! I write about heroines who have one-night stands or who fuck a guy after just meeting them, but that isn’t real life. At least not for me. I’ve seen firsthand what jumping into a relationship based on sex can do to a couple, and it isn’t pretty.

Deciding to march back over there, I don’t bother knocking before letting myself in. I stomp my way upstairs even though I have no idea where he went, but I’m not thinking straight anymore. My heart is racing, and I’m determined to give him a piece of my mind. Who does he think he is kissing me like that?

There are two doors on each side of the hallway, and one is cracked halfway open, so I decide to try that one first.

“Ethan!” I shout. My bare feet thump against the hardwood floor as I try to find him. I peek around the barely open door, which ends up being the bathroom. “Ethan, where are you?” I raise my voice louder, not sure if I should try the other doors or not.

I step farther down the hallway and hear bass thumping along the ceiling. He must be in the tower.

Rounding the corner, I spot the stairs that lead up to the third floor. The music becomes louder as I quietly take the steps. When I reach the top, I see his bare muscular back hunched over slightly as his hands work a chunk of clay on his pottery wheel. It’s loud and vibrates the floors, which is probably why his music is as loud as it is.

Wooden boards surround the room with clay mugs and bowls. Large white buckets are scattered around the room with glaze written on them, and it looks like a great working space. So peaceful and probably has a gorgeous view in the early mornings.

I watch him for a while, admiring the way his muscles contract in his biceps as he shifts in his seat between wetting the sponge and molding the clay between his fingers. I’ve never seen anyone make pottery before, but he makes it seem effortless. Actually, really fucking sexy. Studying him, I don’t realize how long it’s been, and when he shifts his body and glances at me, his face contorts. I expect him to scold me for watching when he didn’t know, but instead, he scoots back on the seat and tilts his head.

“Come sit,” he orders.

At first, I think I hear him wrong, the music must’ve jumbled his words, but when he jerks his head again, I know I didn’t.

Licking my lips, I take a step and walk toward him. He sits back just enough to allow me to sit in front of him, basically in his lap, but I don’t complain.

His arms wrap around mine, and he guides my hands to the clay in the middle of his wheel. Pressing his foot on the pedal, the wheel begins to spin again. His hands cover mine as we shape the clay, and he uses his finger to guide my thumb into the middle where a hole starts to form.

“I hope I don’t mess up your piece,” I turn my head slightly and tell him loud enough, so he can hear me.

His body maneuvers closer to mine, his chest against my back leaving no space between us. My body shivers at the close contact and how he’s holding me in place with his thighs and shoulders.

“You probably will,” he whispers, and even though his tone is serious, I feel his lips spread into a smirk against the shell of my ear.

I chuckle, leaning my body against his for support, not wanting to admit how good it feels to have him so close to me. I came up here to yell at him, and now his bare chest has captured my body, and unwillingly—my heart. He slowly removes his hands and slides them up my arms before reaching for his sponge. After wetting it, he squeezes it over my hands and clay.

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