Page 2 of Can't Text This

He pulls his mouth from mine and his lips find my jaw again, this time traveling up to that spot just behind my ear.

I giggle at the contact and he laughs, the vibration against my neck making me squirm.

“Shut up. It’s been a while.”

“Uh huh. That’s not the reason you’re reacting the way you are, though,” he argues.

“You’re right. It’s because I’m super into you because I know you so well.”

He tsks. “Was that sarcasm I detected? Someone’s got a mouth on her.” His lips meet the shell of my ear. “I like that.”

I want to push him away and pull him closer all at once.

Push because this isn’t me. This isn’t who I am. I don’t lash out with sharp words, and I sure as hell don’t make out with strangers in bathrooms.

Pull because I don’t think kissing could ever get better than this.

There’s also a little dose of shame.

“I’m not usually this…forward with guys.”

He runs a hand over my sweater, pulling at the collar of the crisp white shirt underneath it. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Are you making fun of me? I’m sitting in the shame corner over here and you’re making fun of me?”

He withdraws a bit, and I miss the feel of him against me. I curl into myself, trying to regain some semblance of warmth.

“Shame?”

His dark brows are slashed together. He stands there, hands settled on either side of me, waiting for me to answer.

Under the yellow glow of the light overhead, I take a good look at the man who was just firmly planted between my spread legs.

His caramel skin is covered—and I mean, every single inch, right up to his thick neck—in tattoos, ones I can’t quite discern in the shadows but look beautiful nonetheless.

There’s delicious stubble lining his strong, angled jaw and plump, rose-colored lips. I can’t make out his eye color clearly, but right now he has that glassy look about him. He’s had a few too many drinks too.

“There’s nothing to beashamedof. We’re adults, and we’re enjoying each other’s company—no shame in that.”

I squirm beneath his scrutiny.

“Unless you’re not into it…”

“I am,” I say too quickly.

Another grin. “Yeah? Then what’s the big deal?”

I shake my head. “There isn’t one. I’m being dumb.”

He pushes himself off the counter and it creaks under the shifting weight.

That’s another thing: he’s huge—like, muscles on muscles kind of huge, the kind that tells me he’s probably hiding a six pack under that tight gray shirt of his.

The thought overwhelms me because I’ve never seen abs in real life. My fingers itch to touch him, and before I know it, I’m pulling him back between my legs. My hands fan out on his stomach and he shakes his head.

“What are you doing, Monty?” he whispers, his breath brushing over my lips.

“Abs.”

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