Page 47 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
It’s anotherAlicequote, and this time, it’s too much. I’ve opened myself up to him, just a crack, but it’s enough to let the light in.Hislight. It feels like sunshine, flooding me with life and heat and something I haven’t let myself feel in far too long.
Desire.
I want the feeling to last. I want to grab hold of this moment and make it mine. I want to kiss this man who somehow seems to see me, therealme, when no one else does.
So I do.
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The kiss is even better than I imagined.
And yes, I’ve been imagining kissing Gray Beckham for quite some time. If I’m being honest, I’ve wanted to kiss him since the first night we met in the stairwell.
I just never thought I actually would.
I’ve no idea if he feels the same way. I want to believe we’ve been barreling toward this, that all our charming little encounters have been leading up to this moment and the attraction is really, truly mutual. But I’m afraid to let myself believe. If it’s not true—if I’ve been dreaming about a mad love affair when he’s simply been being polite—I will die. I can’t stand any more humiliation in the name of attraction. I absolutely cannot. Dig a hole in the ground, shove me inside, and forget I ever existed because I’m done.
Excellent news, though. There’s nothing polite about the way he kisses me back. Better yet, there’s no hesitation. No doubt. When I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his, he groans.Groans!
That tantalizing sound is all the confirmation I need.
He’s been thinking about kissing me too, it seems. The realization that I’m not alone in this—that he wants me as much as I want him—is enough to make me weak in the knees. I think I might faint for real this time. I sway a little, but before my legs give out, Gray presses me against the closed door, leaning into me and anchoring my hands above my head while he continues kissing me as if I’m the most desirable woman in the building. In the universe, maybe.
Oh my God.
This isn’t polite at all. In fact, it’s downright naughty. And Iloveit. I love how warm his mouth is—searing hot. I love the way I can feel his heartbeat crashing against mine when he leans closer. I even love the way he wads my nerdy, bookish T-shirt in his fist, clenching it tight before releasing it and sliding his hand up the side of my neck to bury his fingertips in my hair.
My body is aflame, head to toe.
Is this what kissing is supposed to feel like? Because it’s not like any kiss I’ve ever experienced before. Heat is coursing through me, making me act in ways that are completely foreign to me. I’m biting at Gray’s lower lip, whimpering against his mouth, begging and pleading for more—more of his witty words and soulful glances, more of his firm, muscular body.
More ofhim.
Somewhere amid the heady fog of desire, I’m fully aware of the wrongness of what’s happening. He’s apageant judge. I try to tell myself it’s okay because I’m not really a contestant.
But what I am is actually worse. I’m a phony. And a liar. There’s no possible way that a man who runs a charity for terminally ill children will be okay with what I’ve done.
Nothing good can come of this.
I know I should stop. And I try. I really do, but my brain has turned to mush. If you asked me who J. K. Rowling is right now, I’d probably say she is the president of the United States. He’s quite literally kissed me senseless.
I purr like a kitten. Then Gray’s lips leave mine and just as I’m beginning to mourn their loss, his mouth drops to my neck. I can’t take it anymore. The way he’s pinned my arms above my head is undeniably hot—like, Heathcliff-stomping-around-the-windswept-moors-in-Wuthering-Heights-level hot—but I need to touch him.
“Please,” I whisper, tugging free from his hand, still wringing my wrists like bracelets.
He lets them go, then rests his forehead against mine. Our gazes collide and for the first time, I notice the tiny gold flecks in his eyes as my hands find his chest. At last I’m touching him, letting my hands roam to his sides, sliding beneath his suit jacket and up the muscular expanse of his back.
A lump clogs in my throat. He feels so solid beneath my fingertips. So hard. Soreal. He kisses me again, but this time the kiss is tender—more reverent than I deserve.
My eyes begin to fill.
Then the door behind me bumps against my back, and I freeze.
We both do.
“Hello? Is someone in there?” The voice is feminine and familiar. It definitely belongs to one of the Miss American Treasure contestants, and she’s obviously right on the other side of the door.
We’ve been caught. Our secret, forbidden tryst has lasted less than fifteen minutes.
