The briny scent of the air.
The warmth of his lips.
The taste of beer on his tongue.
The touch of his hand as it frames my face.
The soft mewl that falls from my lips.
It’s the kind of kiss that you want to go on and on. The kind where you know that, once it stops, you’re going to come back to yourself. Then nerves are going to hit and your sensibility is going to soar, so you decide it’s so much easier to be under its pull than to slip out from beneath it.
But we do slip free with one last brush of lips, but he keeps his hands framing my face. “What do you think, Blakely? Do you think we could pass that off as being real?”
I don’t trust my voice to speak, so I nod while my hands, which are still gripped in his sweatshirt, relax some and my pulse races a staccato I’m embarrassed to admit to.
“At least we know we got something right.” His voice is low, laden with a desire that he isn’t trying to disguise as his thumb rubs over my bottom lip.
“Good to know.”
“It isn’t howling at the moon . . .” A smile slides onto his lips, and it’s just as devastating as his kiss.
With my bottom lip between my teeth, I take a step back. “But my toes are in the sand.”
His eyes hold mine, and I swear the look in them makes it hard for me to breathe.
I can tell myself all I want that this was just practice.
But who am I fooling?
It’s been years since I kissed a man like that.
Paul and I stopped french kissing years into our relationship. I’d forgotten the intimacy and romanticism of it until now.
Until Slade’s lips and our pretend kiss that was so much more than pretend.
It was just a kiss.
It was just practice.
Prisha’s advice may have been good, and as much as I want to heed it, parts of me are a lot deeper under the influence of Slade Henderson than I thought, and therefore I don’t want to hear it.
I want to listen to how my body feels. How my heart is racing. How my head is swimming. How that ache in me that he created burns. And how I want . . . just simply want for the first time in what feels like forever.
He’s a rebound.
That’s what this is.
And that kiss just showed me he’s exactly what I need.
Quick. Filthy. Devastating. A rebound romp.
My only thought as I pull out of the parking lot and head home?
I definitely need to go home and shave.
Slade
I look at the stack of folded clothes on the bed before me. I think I have everything I need, including the box of condoms.
Because, fuck, that kiss last night? Was on fire.
I was interested in Blakely the first night we met. When she had dinner with me at Metta’s, I might have gotten a crush on her. And last night? After she destroyed me with those soft lips and fisted hands in my sweatshirt? I’m definitely game.
What an unexpected twist.
What a risk I’m more than willing to take because . . . the woman’s gotten ahold of me somehow.
There was a reserved confidence about her last night, a subtle change in her demeanor that turned me on. Quiet strength wrapped in stunning beauty.
A beauty that was effortless.
And there’s no way that kiss didn’t affect her either.
My dick stirs to life at the mere thought of it.
“Yep. Definitely bringing the condoms.”
When my cell starts ringing and I see the name on the screen, my thoughts shift rapidly.
Talk about killing the daydream.
“It’s been less than forty-eight hours and you’re already calling?” I tease when I pick up the phone.
“The proper way to answer the phone is: Mom, I already miss you so much.”
I snort but love the damn woman anyway. “I could, or I could ask you why you’re calling.”
“I just wanted to tell you to have a good trip.”
“Trip?” I feign ignorance to find out just how much she snooped before leaving.
“Your duffle bag was out, I figured you were taking a little vacation to celebrate my being gone.”
I cough over a laugh. “I’d never do that.”
“Yes, you would.” She’s so matter-of-fact but the amusement in her tone is playful. “Why do you think I didn’t leave you any precooked meals when I left. I figured you wouldn’t be home long enough to eat them.” Silence falls for the briefest of moments as I marvel at her ability to figure things out. Then, of course, she goes in for the kill. “So, who is she?”
“Who is who?” I grab my toiletry bag and add it to the pile.
“Who is the woman who is putting that smile on your face and who you are sneaking off with? I mean, if she weren’t anything special, you would have said something. Your hiding her says volumes.”
“And you wonder why I told you to go home.”
“Deflection is not going to work,” she says in her most motherly tone possible.
“There is no woman, Mom.”
“Uh-huh. You sure came back all smiles the other night after meeting your cousin for drinks.”
“I have to go pack now.”
“Does she have three heads? Is she a celebrity?”
“You need help.” I shake my head and laugh.
“Or is she the one?” She gasps. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Tell Dad to take your temperature.”
“Was it love at first sight?”
“Or, better yet, take you to the emergency room because I think you’ve hit your head. There is no such thing as love at first sight.”
“And that, my son, is where I’ve raised you all wrong.”
“I know what you and Dad have is unique and one of a kind, but it just isn’t like that these days.”
“I don’t buy it. The minute I met your father, I knew he was the one. There was a pull that made us happen to be in the right place
