Page 84 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Sweet.”

She lifts her chin. “What?”

“You playing with something you already said you don’t want.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want you.”

No, she didn’t.

She said worse.

She said she didn’t do just sex.

I step closer. She steps back once, not scared, only making room until her spine touches the kitchen counter.

My hands land on either side of her, gripping the edge instead of her hips.

Grip the counter.

Not the woman.

She looks up at me, breath already uneven.

“You got no idea what I’m thinking right now.”

“I have some idea.”

“No, sunshine. You don’t.”

Her lashes flutter at the name, and my body notices like it was built for that reaction.

“I’m thinking about putting my mouth on yours until you quit using it to argue with me. I’m thinking about how soft you’d sound if I kissed your neck right there where your pulse keeps calling me a liar. I’m thinking about how those bare legs would feel wrapped around me and how hard I’d have to hold that counter to keep my hands where you haven’t invited them. I’m thinking about all the places I’d like to learn just to prove I can study too.”

Her lips part.

“Bitter.”

“Say stop and I stop.”

She swallows. “I didn’t say stop.”

“No. You didn’t.”

I lower my head slow enough to give her every chance to turn away.

She doesn’t.

Our mouths meet, and the first touch is supposed to be controlled. That is the plan. A taste. A warning. A mistake small enough to survive.

Sweet ruins that by making a soft sound against my lips.

I lose my damn mind.

I kiss her deeper, one hand leaving the counter to cup the side of her neck, not tight, never tight, just enough to feel her pulse jump under my palm.

She grips my shirt, fingers curling in the cotton, and kisses me back like all that sunshine has been hiding a storm with its teeth bared.

She tastes like toothpaste and apple and Sweet.