He smiles, stands, and offers me his hand. “Come with me.”
“But the table is a mess,” I say, grasping at straws.
“We’ll clean it up later.”
He takes my hand, guides me to the couch, and gently sweeps out his hand for me to sit. I do.
He goes back for the champagne flutes then sits next to me, reaching for my hand, running his thumb across the top of it. “If you’re not ready, no hard feelings.”
I swallow roughly. “I am ready, I’m just . . .”
“Nervous?” he supplies.
I nod, admitting it at last. “I am.”
“Do you want to talk about why?”
I take a sip of my drink then set down the glass, waiting for the floaty feeling to kick in.
But champagne isn’t the answer.
Crosby sets his glass on the table next to mine, waiting for me to tell him the truth I’m holding in.
I part my lips, draw a shaky breath, then blurt out, “I don’t want to be bad in bed.”
A laugh bursts from his chest. “Nadia,” he says softly, then weaves his fingers through mine. “Would you think it’s crazy if I said the same thing?”
I scoff. “There’s no way you could think that.”
He gives a but I do shrug.
My jaw drops. “Do you really worry about that?”
He inches closer, clasping my hand tighter. “I want this to be good for you. Fuck, that’s wrong,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. He stops like he’s collecting his thoughts, then his blue eyes lock with mine. His blaze with heat, but something else too—something sweet, something vulnerable. “I want it to be spectacular.”
My heart lodges in my throat, and I swallow past a lump that appears out of nowhere.
What the freak?
Now is not the time for my crying-on-cue gland to activate. I draw a steadying breath. “I don’t want to be unspectacular,” I admit, feeling terribly vulnerable too. “I want you to feel good as well.”
He cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead to mine. “It’ll feel good because it’s you, and it’s me, and it’s us.” His heady whisper sends me spinning into a whirlwind of lust and longing and something else too—something that feels dangerously close to another L word.
He brushes his lips against mine, a hint of a kiss, then he pulls back. “But we can put the brakes on this for now. Or forever, if you want. There’s no pressure. Hell, if you want to play poker or watch SportsCenter or scroll through Netflix in the hopes of finding a new comedy you haven’t seen, we can do that.”
I shake my head. “I do like poker, but I don’t want to do that. I think . . .” I do a status check, and my heart is finally beating normally. “I think I just needed to talk to you first. I feel better now.”
“We can talk all night if you want. I meant what I said last night. No regrets. No pressure.” He sweeps some hair off my shoulder, making me shudder. “Do you want to talk more now?”
The truth is . . . I do. Because talking to him settles me. This connection with Crosby is what I like. This is why I want to be with him tonight. My eyes drift down his body, taking him in again—his navy-blue Henley stretched snug across his firm pecs and showing off his strong biceps, his faded blue jeans fitting him just so, then finally his . . . corgis?
I peer at his purple socks, then up at him, arching one are you serious brow. “Are there corgi butts on your socks?”
He waggles a foot. “Why, yes, there are. These are my new lucky socks. Bought them today.”
I laugh, truly laugh, from deep within. “So a dog’s rear end? Those are your getting-lucky socks?”
He slides his foot up my leg. “What’s hotter than corgi butts?” he asks, his covered toe reaching my knee.
I laugh harder, pushing his foot away. “You really love your good-luck charms.”
“I’m a superstitious mofo.”
“So without the new socks, nothing would happen tonight?”
He slides his arms around my waist and shakes his head, the mood shifting, intensifying. “Honestly, Nadia, I just like socks a lot. They’re kind of my thing. And maybe the ritual makes me feel calm, makes me feel centered.”
“Do you feel calm right now?”
He licks his lips. “I feel certain.”
My body hums at his words, at his gaze, all possessive and open at the same time. “Certain about what?”
“About you,” he says, a husky sound that ignites a shiver of sparks down my spine.
“What about me?” I ask breathily.
“This.” He leans in close again, takes my face in his hands once more, and reconnects with my lips.
He’s torturously slow and deliberately gentle, like he’s kissing me in slow motion.
He flicks his tongue across my bottom lip, and I shudder. We’re talking full-body tremble here, pleasure spinning through my veins.
He’s achingly tender, kissing me like he’s luxuriating in every second, like he’s exploring my mouth in the most unhurried way. He slides his tongue across it, then nips on the corner, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.
“Ohhh,” I moan, and the melting begins.
It starts as a warm, hazy sensation gliding over my skin. Then it becomes more intense with each brush of his lips, with each sensual graze of his mouth on mine.
I go boneless, my knees weakening even though I’m sitting, as he cups my face and kisses me like I’m the answer to every question.
His hands slide into my hair, his fingers tangling through the strands as he deepens the kiss.
And I deepen it right back, kissing him the way he kisses me.
Because he’s the answer too. He’s the answer to all my questions about sex, about intimacy.
Especially, maybe, about why I waited.
I waited for this.
This connection.
This sense that we’re the only ones in the world, that our kisses are all that exist.
That no one has ever touched the way we touch.
These are endless, floating, hungry kisses that
