Her hands pull at my waist, tugging my shirt free and skimming up my back. Butterfly touches. Heat ignites in me. I pull back so that I can kiss her bottom lip and then the top. Her mouth is surprisingly, shockingly soft. She’s hungry. I can hear her ragged breathing as if there’s not enough air. Not enough touching. She’s all warm female, sweet welcome and porn-star noises.
I could kiss her all night, but instead I ease my mouth away from hers. Her eyes meet mine as my thumb traces the curve of her lower lip. She’s in a hurry, but me... I want to take this slow. I want to savor my first real taste of Hazel. A kiss is an audition. It’s the magic moment when you judge me. Are we compatible? Do I want more? Do you? That cheek kiss with May? Not an accident. Bad kisses are the worst. They’re hard to fix or to figure out why the hot ones rock our world so hard. Kisses are personal.
Christ, she’s... These are the same lips that have barked at me, argued with me, laughed with me and told me more than once that Hazel’s way is the best way. But I’ve never seen them this way before, not as belonging to someone I’d like to kiss. Not wet and slick from my mouth. Not kiss-bruised and greedy for me.
I find her hand with mine and thread our fingers together. It’s silly, but I sort of want all the date things with her, and we haven’t held hands yet. I cup her face with my other hand because I’m a greedy bastard. I’m a big guy and Hazel’s petite, so my fingers curl around her neck and slip into her knot of hair. For one moment, I let myself imagine pulling her hair. Taking charge, taking over. I want to fuck her more than anything I’ve ever wanted.
“Again,” she demands.
Anything. Everything, as long as it happens now.
Our mouths meet, clash, our hands running over each other, learning the outlines of our bodies. She’s all warmth and lean strength, and I kiss her harder, deeper. She has a death grip on my neck now, her nails biting my skin as she makes a throaty, needy sound.
I rest my forehead against hers. “How am I doing?”
She beams at me and undoes my tie. “Nailed it.”
CHAPTER SIX
YOU NEVER FORGET your first kiss.
Even when you want to. My first first kiss was a wet, enthusiastic middle-school attempt. Jenny Dormon cornered me behind the big oak tree on the far corner of the playground and I gave as good as I got. By high school, I’d learned why French kissing was the best, and by college I was a master. And, yes, this is technically our second kiss, but it’s our first on-purpose kiss and it’s fucking amazing.
I look down at Hazel. Her brown eyes are sparkling and she’s got those happy crinkles she bemoans because she claims they’ll lead to Grand Canyon–sized wrinkles when she’s older. Her face is flushed, her lips still parted and damp. It should not surprise me that she’s a champion kisser. Hazel doesn’t like to be anything but the best, and she’s competitive. I bet she’s amazing in bed. She probably thumbs through her monthly Cosmo looking for sexy tricks to add to her bag even though she’s totally awesome just being Hazel.
“I’m the king of good-night kisses,” I whisper against her hair because somehow we’re touching again, her body melting into mine as if she’s trying to imprint every second of our kiss. As if maybe she also wants so much more than just this.
“So,” she says. “Answer a question for me?”
“You got it.”
“As your practice date, will you respect me in the morning if I let you hit a home run?”
Considering how much time I’ve spent thinking about Hazel tonight, there’s only one possible choice. “Open the door, Hazel.”
She grabs my head with one hand and pulls my mouth down to hers. Our third kiss is rougher and hungrier than our first two. I break it off, scoop her up in my arms and tuck her against my chest as I open her front door.
“Viking man.” It doesn’t sound like an objection—plus, the way she’s laughing and wriggling makes my dick harder still.
I tap her butt in mock warning, my palm sliding over the curve of her ass.
“I feel passionately about level playing fields and treating all participants equally,” she warns. Laughter warms her voice, and fuck me if she doesn’t reach around and pinch my butt.
“Are you a completely even-Steven kind of girl?” I head toward her bedroom. I’ve been in Hazel’s house hundreds of times, so I know exactly where I’m going. Her bedroom’s at the end of the hallway. “So if I go down on you for twenty minutes, you’ll go down on me for twenty?”
“I’m the best partner ever,” she says smugly as I toe-open her bedroom door. It looks almost the same. A mountain of decorative pillows devours the bed, and bookcases line the south-facing wall. The shelves are filled with her beloved paperbacks. The room is dark except for the night-light in the bathroom, which is more like a lighthouse or the Eye of Sauron, that cuts through the dark.
I shove the heap of furry, completely useless pillows off the bed with one hand, juggling my Hazel present as I yank back the duvet. Hazel’s bought a new one since the last time I was here—it’s pink and velvety soft. Strangely, it’s not awkward, not like I thought it would be, not even when I drop
