Page 154 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

He licks into my mouth, and I suck on his tongue. Our hands grapple in each other’s hair, claw at each other’s clothes.

We are merciless. This kiss is beyond genuine. Neither one of us was performing last night. There’s nothing fake about our red-hot attraction.

I grab the back of his head, my hands curling through his hair. His palms slide down my chest, and he clutches at my shirt, jerking me closer.

As I show him that our kiss was natural, and as he demonstrates that he only thinks of me, we play a brand-new game.

Who can wind up his ex more?

I want to make him crazy, just like missing him for ten long months has driven me mad. I touch him that way, hard and ruthless as the limo weaves downtown, my mind races to clothes coming off, to bodies connecting.

I’m dying to invite him over. To get naked with him. To come together again.

The car lurches to an abrupt stop at a light. We jerk away from each other.

Like a predator, TJ stares silently at me. He wants to take me apart. His eyes shine with lust; his lips are swollen with need.

Then, he pulls back, smooths a hand down his shirt. “You’re right. That was convincing,” he says as if that’s why we kissed.

To make sure we can pull it off.

That proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that we can kiss. Hell, that kiss could be evidence in a trial.

“We shouldn’t have a problem at the theater,” I say, my chest still rising and falling.

He blows out a breath and turns to me like he wants to say something.

But he’s quiet.

I am too.

Finally, he points to the window and the street beyond. “I should go. Or else...”

Or else what?

But maybe I don’t want to know the answer. When he asks the driver to pull over, I say nothing but goodbye.

As I watch him walk away, I wish it were tomorrow so we could explore whether this kiss was just a fluke...

11

BEING CHEEKY

Jude

Man can’t survive on his opinion alone.

Fortunately, I have a woman to help me pick the right outfit. My bed is littered with the wrong ones.

I take off a pale-yellow linen button-up and toss it on the pile. “Supplies are rapidly dwindling, Liv,” I warn as the mountain of do-not-wear shirts grows taller.

She ignores my concern, flicking through the shirts still on hangers at lightning speed. “Not that one,” Olivia declares as she nixes a purple button-up.

“I like aubergine,” I protest.

“I like eggplant, too,” she says, tossing me a bawdy wink. “And peaches. But this shirt doesn’tsayanything.”

“It’s a shirt. What do you want it to say?”

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