Page 44 of Gloves Off

The doctor and I exchange a wary glance.

“He doesn’t like PDA,” she tells them with an apologetic expression.

“Nice, blame me,” I mutter.

Through a tense smile, she shoots me a look. “I’m not going to kiss you again.”

I bet her boyfriend would hate it. He probably hates that she’s living in my house, one bedroom away, telling everyone she’s married to me. I bet he’s jealous as fuck.

Something proud, possessive, and territorial beats through me. I think about our terrible kiss at the wedding, how I froze up, and how she said it was like kissing the dead body at a funeral. The desire to prove her wrong, tocompetewith her again, roars through me.

“What’s the matter?” I keep my voice low. “Scared you might enjoy it?”

She laughs under her breath. “As if.”

Something primal inside me likes her light, feminine scent. The way she looks up at me as I tower over her. How her long lashes fan out. The plump curve of her mouth, begging for my attention.

It’s cruel, how hot the doctor is. The universe designed her just to torture me.

Every cell in my body wants a do-over, to show her how it could be. I lower my voice to her ear, hand on her waist again. “Maybeyou’rethe bad kisser.”

“It’s not me.”

“Prove it.” My blood beats in my ears, adrenaline in my veins.

The long line of her pale throat bobs. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

She sets a hand on my chest. That intoxicating scent of hers washes over me again, hooking around my neck like a collar, and I lower my mouth to hers.

This time, I don’t freeze up.

CHAPTER 21

GEORGIA

My infuriatinghusband grips my hair, tilts my head back, and kisses me hard. I forget where I am, who I’m with, and why we’re here.

With a low, pleased groan, he coaxes my lips apart and strokes against my tongue. Some instinct deep within me has me stroking his right back, hands fisting the front of his shirt, leaning into his firm chest, arching against him like a cat in heat.

It’s agood kiss. No, it’s agreatkiss.

I don’t even like kissing. It’s the thing I do to get to sex, which is usually disappointing, anyway, but with my husband’s stubble lightly scraping my skin, his clean scent in my nose, and the hot, searching slide of his tongue against mine, my blood turns molten.

I’m on fire. His mouth on mine is too good, too mind-bending and demanding and confident, like he knows exactly what he wants. Like I’m just strung along for the ride.

Did he always smell this incredible?

Where did he learn to kiss like this?

Why is his hair so soft and thick?

Why is him gripping my hair like that so hot?

I didn’t know this kind of kissing was a thing, like I can’t stop and I never want to. Like my entire existence depends on this kissgoing forever. Shivers run up and down my spine, and when he sucks my tongue, my brain short-circuits. He groans, my head spins, and I don’t know what the fuck is happening.

Every time I tug the thick strands of his hair, he lets out another low, hungry noise. The third time I do it, he pulls me to him, hard body flush against mine.

Someone nearby moans. It isn’t me. It can’t be me, because I’m busy thinking about how I hate him. I nip his bottom lip and a shudder runs through him.

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