Page 34 of Second First Kiss

“So you want to have sex with me?” she asked.

He tugged her against him. “Too much.”

“This is an interesting turn of events,” she pointed out. “Usually you’re citing me for ridiculous infractions or reminding me how much I drive you crazy.”

“What drives me crazy is that when I had the chance a few months back to kiss you, I blew it.”

She snorted. “It was a really bad kiss.”

“The worst. Good thing for you, I’ve never been a believer in first impressions. People deserve a second chance.”

“Wait—you’re saying I was the bad part of the equation?” Kat asked incredulously.

“I’m saying that a first kiss between two people who have this many sparks shouldn’t be on a drunken dare in front of a bar full of people.” He slid his fingers out of her hair, down her cheekbone, until his thumb brushed her lower lip.

“No, it shouldn’t.”

“But I’m glad to hear you admit it,” Nolan said.

“Whoa,” she backtracked. “This is just sex. I’m not asking for you to get down on a knee.”

“You don’t want to know the things I can do to you while I’m on my knees and you’re riding my face.”

Heat swirled between her thighs and she felt her panties dampen with need. Need for Nolan.

The man who drove her crazy with his rules and need for order and fairness. The man who woke up early to see what pj’s she had on that day. The only man, besides her grandpa, to come to her rescue.

She wasn’t looking to be rescued, but the feeling of someone having her back, looking out for her well-being like he had earlier, was as unexpected as it was moving.

Nolan Carmichael moved her in many dangerous and unpredictable ways. Which was why she had to bring this back to a place that she was familiar with.

Chemistry.

Want.

Desire.

Two bodies desperate for mutual release. Two people looking for a physical connection that could go no further than a sexual quenching.

She pressed her palms flat against his abs, his taut and delicious abs, and slid them lower and lower until her fingers twisted in his belt loops. “Why don’t we play a little game of show not tell?”

“Kitten,” he said in warning, but he didn’t move away.

“Ranger,” she whispered back, her thumbs toying with his belt buckle.

His eyes held and held . . . and held.

“What’s it going to be?”

“The best fucking kiss of your life.”

Before she could move, his mouth crashed down on hers. It was no gentle meeting of the minds. It was raw and hungry, but practiced and finessed. And it was the best fucking kiss of her life.

In fact, it felt like a rebirth, erasing every kiss that had come before, until the past, present, and future all focused on this one moment. Like some kind of space-time continuum. Part of her was aware that she was standing in the rain in the employee parking lot, kissing El Jefe in front of God, Elvis, and Bette Davis. But the other part of her was so consumed by the sensation of his mouth on hers, the way their rain-slicked lips glided over each other, and how feminine and delicate she felt in his I-bench-press-tree-trunks-for-fun arms she couldn’t focus on that nagging in the back of her brain saying Run, don’t walk, to the nearest exit.

How could she ever have thought he’d be a bad kisser? His attention to detail, his velvet touch, the sheer span of his hands—which were resting on the curve of her ass—and those magical fingers slipping under the hem of her shirt to gently stroke the bare skin beneath. His mouth made him a god among men.

All she could do was hold on for the ride. So she held on, her hands fisted in his hair, her body plastered to his.

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