Page 70 of The Dixon Rule

Diana dons a thoughtful look.

Then she eases forward slightly and presses her lips against mine.

It’s a soft kiss. An exploration. Like putting one foot into the hot tub to test the temperature. It starts as a warm rush bubbling around you. And then, when you realize how fucking good it feels, you submerge yourself. Let it consume you. That’s what happens in a nanosecond. I’m submerged and consumed. She tastes like whiskey and temptation, and I never want this to end. This kiss is pure fire.

Our mouths pressed together, slicking over each other, her lips parting, her tongue coming out to touch mine. My heart is beating too fast. Diana makes a little sound. It’s hard to hear over the music. But it vibrates against my lips.

“Hey, Shane, what’s the Wi-Fi again? I got kicked off—oh, sorry.” Tyreek chuckles softly.

Diana and I break apart. I swipe my hand over my mouth, while she hastily shoves a strand of hair that came loose of her top knot behind her ear.

“No, I’m sorry,” I call back. I clear my throat. “Forgot we weren’t alone.”

I’m not even lying. I completely forgot Lynsey and her boyfriend were here. I was so absorbed in that kiss, a meteor could have hit Meadow Hill, and I would have obliviously and happily died with my tongue in Diana’s mouth. The pool party kiss was hot. This one? Blistering inferno. My dick’s never been this hard from one kiss.

Moistening my suddenly dry lips, I spare a glance at the couch. Lynsey’s gaze finds mine. I can’t decipher her expression.

But I can clearly read Diana’s—a mixture of lust and shock.

I know exactly how she feels.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DIANA

Lack of control

THIS MAKES TWO.

Two times.

Two whole times that I’ve kissed Shane Lindley.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m sprawled on a lounge chair, staring up at the clouds and obsessing over the fact that I kissed Shane last night. Again. And this time it wasn’t because he goaded me into it and I was trying to win a party game.

I wanted to.

I clench my teeth and glare at one cloud formation in particular—the one that looks like two swans kissing. Stupid cloud swans. Rubbing it in my face.

I blame my make-out with Shane on the foul whiskey. I was very, very drunk.

You were not very, very drunk.

Oh my God. It’s true. I was tipsy at best.

I hear the slap of flip-flops on concrete and look up to see Shane approach in a pair of red swim trunks and a white T-shirt. He sets a full coffee mug on the table beside me, then spreads an oversized striped towel over the chair next to mine.

There’s only one other person out here this morning. Veronika sits on the other side of the rectangular pool, reading a romance novel with a shirtless guy on the cover. As much as I like to make fun of her for banging all the pool boys, I do admire her no-fucks-given attitude. She’s in her midfifties and living her best single life after a drawn-out divorce. No husband, no kids. Living the dream over there.

Her head lifts the moment Shane arrives, appreciation filling her eyes. Great. I guess we’ll be having this awkward chat in front of an audience.

“Hey.” His voice has some gravel to it, and he looks tired.

“Hey.”

As Shane lies down and stretches his legs out, I can’t help but notice that his body just dominates that chair. It goes on forever. But I guess that’s what happens when you’re six-one with stupidly long legs and a broad, sculpted chest.

I twist my head toward him. “Where are your houseguests?”

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