Makoa’s eyes met mine, and a level of understanding settled between us.
I knew what it was like to live alone, to spend almost every night in the quiet of your own mind, where every thought was free to roam and keep you awake.
“Alright, so the question was what does it mean to practice lectamia?” the DJ said, interrupting our conversation for the moment.
But Makoa’s eyes stayed on me, like he was digesting my last comment, like he wanted to climb inside my mind.
“The answer is… Lectamia is the act of caressing in bed without intercourse.”
There was a chorus of groans, as well as a few cheers from the other teams, and Makoa shook his head, glaring holes into the DJ booth.
“You’re never allowed to pick the bar we play trivia at again,” he said.
I chuckled. “Hey, at least we’re expanding our vocabulary. Lectamia sounds like it could be kind of fun.”
Makoa licked his bottom lip, sitting back in his chair as his eyes appraised me. He traced the rim of his glass before lifting it to his lips and draining the last of his beer. “Maybe we should test that theory.”
Everything in my body lit up with a whispered yes.
And with a check, please and an abandoned trivia game in our dust, we piled into a cab that took us back across town to my place.
We’d barely pushed through my front door before my purse was thrown on the floor and my arms were wrapped around Makoa’s neck. I was in the process of climbing him like a tree when he laughed, holding my hips in place to keep me on the ground and putting some space between us.
“Please don’t tell me you were joking about testing the theory,” I said, practically panting as my eyes fell to his lips with a desperate wish.
He chuckled, sliding his hands up my arms slowly. Then, those giant, beastly hands slid back to frame my neck, his thumbs on my chin, fingers tangling in my hair just like I’d manifested when I’d curled it.
“Not joking,” he answered, his voice low. “But if I get the pleasure of kissing you, I’m going to take my time and kiss you right.”
I swallowed, and inner me scolded my heart for doing a little flip at his words. The old version of Belle Monroe — the young, naïve one who didn’t know where she fit in the world — leaned into those lush, romantic words like they were a field of wildflowers. I wanted to inhale them, feel them on every inch of my skin, pick a few petals and keep them in a book to hold onto long after this moment.
But I knew better.
I knew those words were just a ploy, just a cute, clever way to make me swoon and spread my legs.
And then, just like every other guy, he’d be gone.
I shoved those thoughts out of my mind for the time being, focusing instead on the way Makoa’s eyes studied my lips like they were the answers to every quiz he’d ever take. He brushed his thumb over the bottom one, and I chased it with my tongue, eliciting a sharp inhale from him before his eyes met mine.
Then, carefully, with purpose and conviction, he pulled me into him, his fingers still in my hair, his breath warm on my lips until the very moment he pressed his own to mine.
I hated our first kiss.
It was the kind of kiss you saw in the movies, slow and sensual, his lips too soft and warm and perfect where they met mine. He held my face in just the right way, with confidence and care in equal measure, and he inhaled at the contact like he was breathing in all of me. His hands trembled a bit when he deepened the kiss, and I leaned into it, emotion surging through me no matter how I tried to fight it, like I was just deep enough in the ocean to get pummeled by wave after wave without being able to catch my breath.
That kiss was magnetic. It was fireworks and shooting stars and a million fairytales lived out in a single moment.
It was the kind of kiss that could ruin a girl if she wasn’t careful.
If she didn’t know better.
Luckily, I did.
Desperate to kill the romance threatening to pull me into dangerous territory, I wrapped my arms around Makoa to deepen the kiss even more, my tongue jetting out to meet his. He groaned at the sensation, and I smiled in victory, leaping into his arms without warning. I knew it would give him no choice but to let me fall or catch me.
And catch me, he did.
My legs wrapped around his waist, and before I knew it, I was pinned against my front door, Makoa’s hands digging so deep into my hip bones that I prayed for a bruise to be left in their wake.
I sighed, letting my head drop back against the door and allowing access to my neck, which Makoa took greedily. His lips sucked and kissed along the skin, and I rolled my hips, letting out a moan of my own when I felt his hard length straining against his jeans.
It didn’t take more than that brief moment of friction for me to know he definitely did not have a micropenis.
Wrapping one arm full around his neck to secure myself where he held me, I dipped one hand down between us, kissing him hard as my fingers danced down his chest, his abdomen. I slipped them under the band of his jeans, dragging a line from hip to hip, but his belt made it impossible for me to get any deeper.
Makoa groaned, biting my lip before he forced my hands above my head. He pinned them there at the wrists with one massive hand before the other palmed my breast, hard, and I leaned into the aggressive touch with a silent plea for
