Page 11 of The 7 Rules of Moving On
“Only because I forgot to write it down.”
He sucked on his lower lip, playing dirty. “There’s gotta be some leeway for a rule so insignificant you didn’t remember to write it down. It’s not even laminated.”
Her gaze lingered on his mouth. “I guess you have a point.”
“And a kiss isn’t even hooking up, is it? Hooking up requires hands and bodies and nakedness. We both have our clothes on.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “And look, no hands.”
Her lips hinted at a smile.
“Just a kiss?” he said, a plea.
“Just a kiss.” Her breathy whisper made him want to do so much more to her than only give her a kiss, but he kept his hands clasped.
“A harmless, little kiss.” He’d leaned forward at some point, drawing his mouth down toward hers, so close the tiny warm puffs of her breath tickled his beard.
Licking her lips, she said, “Maybe, if it’s harmless…”
He moved slowly, giving her plenty of time to push him away. She didn’t.
When his lips touched hers, he kept his pressure soft, his touch light as a feather. He didn’t want to scare her off, but he also wanted to make this kiss, the only one he’d probably ever get with her, last as long as he could. He kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other, and then he let his lips hover over hers again, barely touching.
It was Kissie who pressed them together this time, her hands sliding up his shirt, settling over his chest.
Emboldened by the way her fingers curled, making fists in the fabric of his shirt, he let his lips part and his head tilt, the movement allowing his mouth to slide over hers. When he dared to brush his tongue over her bottom lip, a questioning, tentative pass, he was rewarded with a quiet but devastating moan rising from her throat. It was this noise that nearly unclasped his hands, tempting him to slide his fingers up her neck or into her hair or anywhere else she’d let him touch her.
“Kissie,” he said, pulling away, realizing his mistake. There was no possible universe in which only kissing her would ever be enough. “Maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldn’t.”
Releasing his shirt, she reached around him to unclasp his hands. “Don’t stop,” she said, guiding his hands to her hips, her lips wet, eyes dazed. “Please, don’t stop.”
Even though she had, he didn’t need to be asked twice. He pulled her mouth back to his, dragging her close with a hand behind her neck. She answered by turning to straddle the piano bench, her leg winding up hooked over his thigh while his other hand slid around to cup her ass.
Slowly, her mouth opened to him, and he let his tongue brush over hers, his eyes rolling back into his head at the soft, wet heat of her mouth.
Maybe it was because he knew this moment was fleeting, a glimpse of something life-changing but ephemeral, like seeing the northern lights for the first time, but time seemed to slow. In the space between seconds, he memorized every single detail, the way her lips curled around his, the way her body pressed tightly against him as she drew even closer, the way her mouth felt like velvet and tasted like honey.
With her hand hot on the back of his neck, her fingers hooked in a demanding pull that provided all the encouragement he needed, he deepened the kiss, grabbing her hips and hauling her fully into his lap. The noise this move elicited from her was not anonly kissingkind of noise. It was atorn clothes on the floor, pictures rattled off the walls, we broke the damn bedkind of noise. He couldn’t go on like this much longer, especially not with his hand sliding up the back of her shirt the way it was.
Summoning every ounce of willpower he possessed, he broke away from the kiss in degrees, moving his hands back to her hips, replacing the deep, sweeping invasion of his tongue with tender brushes of his lips over hers.
“We should stop,” he said against her lips after one final soft kiss.
Her eyes still closed, she said, “I don’t want to stop. That was the best kiss of my life.”
Needing to cut through the thick fog of sexual tension by any means necessary before he broke every rule she’d ever made for herself, he japed, “I’ve had better,” then winced when her eyes flew open and she slapped his arm.
“Jerk.”
“I’m kidding. I haven’t, actually,” he admitted, rubbing the tiny sting out of his arm, his head clearing somewhat of the horny, primal desire to haul her over his shoulder and take her to his bed. “But I refuse to acknowledge how good that kiss was, since it’s the last one like it I’ll probably ever get.”
Sighing deeply, she smoothed down the front of his shirt where she’d grabbed it, making a pained noise when her hands slid over his pecs again. “I should probably go.”
“You do have a long drive.”
Scooting out of his lap and up off the piano bench, she rearranged her hoodie back into place and stared at him for a moment. Eventually, with an awkward bow, she said, “Thank you, Andrew Trig. For your time.”
“My time?” he asked, laughing. He reached out for her hips, tempted to pull her back into his lap. “You’re welcome, Joni Cassandra Mitchell. And I have plenty more time I could donate—”
She backed away. “Stop. You’re making this too hard.”
