“That’s irrelevant.” His eyes squint into mine. “You should forgive him so you can move on.” A sad smile comes and goes. “And then maybe you won’t feel the need to subject yourself to a stranger.”
“Newsflash, you hardly qualify as a stranger anymore. And”—I touch my finger to his plush lips to silence him—“while I appreciate the armchair psychiatry, I still believe every hurt woman is due a little bitterness in the end.”
He playfully bites down on my finger. “It’s not healthy.”
“But it’s most satisfying.”
“You know what feels better?” His brows draw a line low on his forehead framing those pine-forest eyes in like a hedge. “Revenge. Let him see you happy.” He firms his grip over me. “Really, really happy.”
“You make me happy.” It feels vulnerable saying something so benign to Wyatt. It’s probably as close to a declaration of love as I’ll ever get, so in that respect it felt intimate. “You know what? You’re right.” I lower his hands over my hips, then lower still before slipping them right over the curve of my ass. “I think tonight is a great night to dole out a nice cold helping of revenge. How about a kiss?” I tilt my head just this side of pleading. I’m not above begging, and God knows there’s an entire litany of sexual favors I’ll be begging for next Saturday night. I’m sure please and thank you will be two phrases I’ll become quite familiar with.
Wyatt smolders into me, a slight smile curves up one side. “What happened to fireworks?”
“We’ll keep it chaste. No tongue.” I hold up two fingers as if proving a point. “Closed mouthed kisses can look pretty darn hot from afar.” And feel that way up close but I don’t bother bringing up the obvious.
Wyatt pulls back just enough with his lids hanging heavy, his easy come and go dimples digging in as if to further seduce me. Wyatt James doesn’t even have to brush his hair to seduce me another inch. I’m already sold, counting the hours, the passion-ripe seconds, until we explode like a series of landmines taking out entire continents with our savage lust next Saturday night.
“Closed mouth,” he admonishes as he edges his way to my lips, his lids shutting ever so slowly.
Damn, he’s hotter than a grease fire when he tells me what to do—even if it was my idea. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin like a furnace as my adrenaline skyrockets. My heart rate picks up. I’m panting as if I’ve just sprinted to Prescott and back.
“So this is happening?” I ask, stupidly as he comes in so close, and I swear he whispers yes.
Our lips glide over one another, soft at first. What with all the swaying and his hands still firmly, might I add obediently, glued to my bottom, I’m afraid our lips will keep drifting away, so I secure my hand to the back of his neck.
Wyatt seals his mouth to mine in one quick intoxicating move. A hard groan expels from my throat as I melt over him. His mouth steadies onto mine, soft then hard, in a pulsating rhythm. I writhe my head, moaning into him nonstop, but it’s not for show. Who knew closed mouth kissing could be so damn erotic? This is most definitely headlining my next article. It’s horrifically tantric in nature, and, as much as I profess to hate anything that gets in the way of the finish line, this most certainly makes the journey that much more memorable.
Wyatt stops moving and expends his full concentration on this one, immovable lip-lock. We moan and move over one another’s mouths with a building lust that has the power to fuel ten thousand rocket ships. We could fly to Jupiter and back on the pent up energy exerted in this one beautiful kiss. Lust. Wyatt and I have it in acres. Can you have lust without love? Of course, you can. Wyatt and I are living, breathing, sexually starving proof.
Aren’t we?
* * *
Come Tuesday I’m a bit zippy, swinging my ponytail like a thirteen-year-old, walking with a spring in my step on my way to class. It’s officially countdown-to-Wyatt week, and Aunt Flo isn’t even on the horizon, so my body is all clear to go.
Annie still thinks I’m certifiable and, yet, helped me thumb through my bin of underused lingerie this morning. I’m sort of a Pretty Panty hoarder if you know what I mean. I find them unrepentantly impractical for everyday use, but, nonetheless, I can’t walk by a good two for one steal. Plus I have the Victoria’s Secret Annual sale marked off on my calendar as a to-do item—not to mention the half-year, semi-annual and seasonal clearance. Can a girl ever have too many baby-dolls? I think not. Besides, something tells me Professor James will very much appreciate the breadth and variety of my vast collection of unmentionables.