I hadn’t expected to be blindsided by the soft fullness of her mouth, instantly addicted to the heady toffee flavor I tasted hints of, hiding behind the rigid line of her lips.
This wasn’t about getting her to shut her mouth any more.
I feathered my lips over hers again, coaxing her to let me inside. The set of her mouth softened, but still she kept me out.
Then I heard the slight sound of a swallowed moan, rough and intoxicating.
I lost the last shred of restraint that I’d convinced myself I had so much of.
With a groan, I took and I teased and finally her lips parted just a fraction, allowing me inside to taste her sweetness full-on.
I became aware of where my hands had landed; one was behind her head, guiding her, and the other was cupping her cheek. I realized my thumb was tracing circles under her jaw. Her skin was softer than I’d expected.
I plundered my tongue alongside hers, and at last, she met me without reservation.
There was a roaring in my ears and a weird buzz had started low in my belly, tickling and humming. Or maybe the humming was coming from my throat.
I have kissed many women, and not one had ever affected me like this.
Her hands crept up my shirt, tugging me closer. I was sucked under and poleaxed.
I told myself thinking about sucking was dangerous right now.
But it was too late.
My hips jacked into her soft stomach, seeking, and my hand slipped down her back to pull her closer. The other kept with the circles, and I felt her arm slide around my hips to press me in deeper still. Another groan rumbled through my chest and I was nearly gone.
Outside slipped away and I lost track of where, exactly, we were. I just knew she had the only thing I wanted and if I couldn’t get her under me, then sandwiching her against the wall was the next best thing. Her throaty sigh dimly registered, outweighed by the feel of her rapid breathing skimming over my cheek.
In the not-too-far distance, I heard a car horn honk a little too long, making her jump and shattering the magic. I stepped back, slowly shaking my dazed and spinning head.
Jensen was still gripping my shirt, looking as astonished as I felt. For once, she was quiet.
I had managed to shut both of us up.
She swiped her keycard and ducked inside; I slogged through the sludgy grass to pick up the ruined photos. I kind of wished the sprinklers were still on. The cold shower would’ve been handy.
By the time I got inside with the shit-ton of dripping photos and my muddy car cup (I dropped both into the nearest trash can), Jensen had the coffee brewed. She was reading something on her laptop, or maybe just pretending to. But it was okay; I didn’t feel much like meeting her eyes, either.
I really had no idea why I kissed her. Sure, she’s attractive, but she was also annoying as all hell. Yes, her voice was like someone stroking my dick with velvet from the inside, but just because I reacted like any guy would to that throaty porn-star purr didn’t mean there was more to it.
So why did I feel like I’d just stuffed firecrackers into my skull and lit them off?
I grabbed a couple of coffee filters to wipe the mud off my hands, then filled my mug. I lost track of the spoonfuls of sugar, though, and it was way too sweet. I drank it anyway. The taste reminded me of something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on just what.
Until Jensen spoke. Then it hit me where I’d gotten a shot of that flavor.
“Lindsay Lohan alright for today? She got arrested over the weekend again.”
“Lindsay Lohan is always okay. It’s unlikely we’ll ever have her in the studio.” Lord, we were stilted now. Not that we were ever all that easy with each other—it had only been a week—but I went and wrecked what we’d managed to achieve by kissing my fucking co-host.
And—
Instead of her being taught a lesson about flirting, I got schooled myself.
I think neither one of us wanted to address the elephant lying spread-eagled smack-dab in the middle of the counter we sat on opposite sides of. Other than my very first time (Tina Crawford, fourth grade, spin-the-bottle, no tongue), I’ve never in my life felt this awkward and embarrassed after a kiss.
I couldn’t blame it on lack of skills. My kissing knowledge has increased a millionfold since Tina and that Coke bottle.
There was no way I could fault Jensen’s abilities, either. And you can bet that I already tried. My ego would have given me a blow job in gratitude if I could have pointed the finger at the way she moved or the feel of her lips. But they were, in a word, perfection.
And in the guy-tionary, that means danger, Will Robinson.
There’s no casual with perfection. By its very nature, it makes you want it again, and you end up comparing everything else to it and coming up short. Perfection makes a man start thinking permanent, and who in hell wants that?