Page 53 of Almost Enough

That earns me a soft exhale. Not quite a laugh—but close. His hand braces beside my head, caging me in. Not touching. Just…there.

“Thought you were tired.”

“I’m tired, not dead.”

Another beat. His eyes flick to my mouth.

I tip my head, boldness buzzing under my skin. “Say something else in that sex god voice of yours, and I swear I’ll⁠—”

He leans in a fraction, lips brushing my ear. “Keys, Red. Unless you want me breaking this door down.”

My entire brain short-circuits. “What were we talking about?”

He chuckles, and I fumble to dig the keys from my bag with shaking hands.

Menace, two. Dignity, still missing.

I manage to get the door open without dropping the keys or my purse or what remains of my composure. Beau follows me inside, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds final. A decision being made.

The cottage is mostly dark, just a single lamp spilling soft golden light over the furniture. We stand there in the shadows. My heart is past the point of racing, and I have no idea why I almost feel nervous right now. I don’t get nervous.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask, desperate to do something with my hands that isn’t grabbing his face. “I think there’s still some champagne left from⁠—”

“No.”

I swallow hard, nodding as if I’m not on the verge of combustion. “Right. Okay. Well, I should probably just…”

“Whitley.” My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a warning all at once. “Stop talking.”

My breath catches. “Why?”

He takes a step closer, and the air between us charges with something electric. “Because I’m going to kiss you.”

My brain goes static. My lungs forget how to function. My heart’s somewhere in my throat, pounding like it wants to leap out and throw itself into his hands. In fact, I think it already has.

He’s looking at me like he’s already memorized the shape of my mouth and is just debating how thoroughly he wants to ruin it.

I’ve been kissed before. I’ve had sloppy, sweet, forgettable kisses that felt more like punctuation than poetry, but none of them knocked my socks or panties off.

Beau Sinclair hasn’t even kissed me, but I can feel this is the most epic of kiss prologues. Like the start of something I’m already all in on. No brakes. No caution tape. Just Beau, standing so close and not close enough, looking at me like he’s about to devour me.

So, yeah, I stop talking. Because if he’s going to kiss me, I need to feel every goddamn second of it.

He closes the distance between us in one step, his hand sliding up to cup my face. My breath hitches at the contact—his palm rough and warm against my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with unexpected gentleness.

“Last chance to run,” he taunts, his voice a thunderous rumble that I feel more than hear.

I lean into his touch, my eyes never leaving his. “Do I look like I’m interested in running?”

Something flashes in his gaze. Hunger, relief, determination, all of the above. Then his mouth is on mine.

The first press of his lips is controlled and careful. A question. A test. But when I make a small, desperate sound against his mouth, he snaps.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he angles my head, deepening our connection with a growl that reverberates through my entire body. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him until there’s nothing between us but the silk of my dress and the heat of his body.

I arch into him, my hands clinging to his shoulders, his biceps, anywhere I can reach. His mouth is demanding and relentless against mine, his tongue sweeping inside with a confidence that makes my knees buckle. He tastes like whiskey and want, and I’m drunk on it, on him, on the way his fingers flex like he’s fighting to keep himself in check.

I’ve spent days imagining this moment, but nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared me for the reality of Beau Sinclair kissing me like I’m air and he’s drowning.