Page 85 of The Backup Plan

I glance around in a minor panic. This isn’t the place to have this conversation even if we’re the only two people here. “Lucas, we’re both at our place of work right now. We can’t—and professionally we can’t—”

“But what if we both agreed that we wanted something more?”

“More?” I bark out the syllable, and the few chords of my laugh that follow sound hysterical as I deny the truth. “I’m flattered you think that, but—”

“Tell me I’m wrong, Emery,” he insists, voice rough.

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

He steps closer and I inhale sharply. His soap. His shampoo. The fullness of his lips. The scruff on his jaw.

For a minute I forget that I’m not supposed to like him.

“Lucas.” His name is a plea. A promise. A warning.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know all the reasons. I know the risks. But avoiding me and professional consequences don’t mean that whatever we feel when we’re around each other isn’t real.”

My heart pounds so hard it drowns out everything else.

“This can’t happen,” I say. “It doesn’t matter if you want it to and I want it to, it just can’t happen. Even this conversation shouldn’t be happening. I’m sure there are cameras and—”

“Not on this side there isn’t.”

“I have to get home.” Every bone in my body wants him. It’s stupid. It’s crazy. “This is exactly—”

He grabs my arm as I walk past him and yanks me firmly against him. “What neither of us wants,” he says. “Drop your bag.”

“What? Why?” I ask, flustered. He takes my bag from me and sets it on the ground.

“Because you’re going to need both hands for this,” he says seconds before his lips slant over mine.

I freeze momentarily as my mind tries to catch up with what my body is feeling.

Heat.

Desire.

Him.

The kiss isn’t gentle.

It’s not rushed.

It’s devastating.

His lips tease mine like they’ve been holding back for days—weeks—and the instant his lips part, I’m gone. I melt into the kiss without thought, without caution, without anything but the heat unfurling in my belly and the slow, sweet ache burning at the apex of my thighs. My hands clutch at his shirt, fingers curling tight into the fabric as a tactile reminder that he’s solid and real and right here.

His hands slide to my waist, fingertips scraping under the hem of my shirt. His touch is warm and steady, and my body sparks in response as if every nerve is waking up at once.

My knees threaten to give out as his tongue tangles with mine.

My pulse pounds in my ears as the groan deep in his throat washes over me.

This is wrong.

This is everything.