Page 52 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I slide my grip around to the nape of her neck. Her skin is softer than any velvet. I can smell her hairspray, and the scent is comforting and familiar, a constant refrain from all the hours I’ve spent in this building, but the way she tastes—

It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.

She tastes like music, like sunshine bouncing through an open window frame, like candle smoke and church bells and the glimmer of dawn on the snow.

I want to drink her up. I want bottles and bottles of her.

When I slip my tongue inside her mouth, chasing more of that flavor, she gasps against my lips and slides her hands from my waist to my hips. She tugs until our bodies are flush together. I can feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine.

There are so many layers of fabric between us, and I already want them all gone. I want to feel her. I want to sink right into her.

From the way she’s digging her fingers under the scalloped hem of my bodice, searching for even an inch of skin, I can tell she feels the same.

I’m so caught up in kissing her I don’t notice we’ve moved until her back thuds against a row of lockers. She moans into my mouth, which makes my fingers curl around the neck of her blouse, fighting the urge to rip it apart.

There’s a force to this kiss, made up of all these weeks of longing and all the years of loathing that came before them. There’s anger in the way our mouths move over one another. There’s fixation. There’s confusion, but there’s no hesitation.

We break the kiss for a moment, both of us gasping for breath, and I open my eyes to find her already watching me. Her stare is hazy. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are a deep, swollen pink from working mine so hard.

“No one has ever kissed me like that,” she breathes.

Her fingers are still working their way under my bodice, and when she gets them beneath the edge of my blouse to graze my back, I swear and drop my head forward, pressing my forehead to hers.

“Moira...”

There’s a warning in my voice. I don’t know if it’s for her or me, but either way, she doesn’t pay it any mind.

“Kiss me again,” she orders, exhilaration making her whispered words shake.

That’s all I want, and when she asks for it like that, I can’t remember a single reason why I shouldn’t give it to her.

Her hips buck up as soon as my lips touch hers, and I can’t resist tasting her mouth again. When I run my tongue along the back of her teeth, she makes a desperate sound in the back of her throat that reverberates through my whole body.

I pull back just long enough to mutter, “These fucking skirts.”

She lets out a throaty chuckle that’s impossibly sexy, and I groan when she arches her back to press herself even closer to me.

The yards and yards of tartan are really getting in the way.

“Here.” She drops her arms from where they’re snaked around my waist and shifts so she can hike her skirts up all the way to the top of her thighs.

I forget how to breathe. For a moment, I think even my heart forgets how to beat.

She’s wearing the standard plain white, boxy underwear that’s an official part of the costume, but even that looks stunning on her.

“Hey, Kenzie.”

“Huh?”

I look up and find her grinning

“I think you should keep making out with me.”

She shifts against the lockers, making one of the combination locks rattle against the metal, and the sound distracts me enough to get the slightest grip on reality.

“Moira, we’re...” I stop and glance over both my shoulders. “We’re in a hallway.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” She says it in her usual shit-talking voice, and I almost laugh, even as an instinctive flare of annoyance heats in my chest.

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