Page 61 of The Bodyguard Proposal

My tongue comes out, and I lick the corner of his mouth, only to hear him chuckle. It's a deep, masculine ray of light amidst this hurricane we've let loose. It makes me want to yell. To open myself and let him climb inside.

Come out, play with me, see me.

Huan rubs his nose against my ear. Then he licks the corner of my mouth and I want to laugh and cry and laugh some more because he is partaking. I’m not alone on this wavelength of absurdity. We touch our foreheads, humming as if trying to say,This is special, but I also can’t believe it.

We both go in for another joke lick, but as soon as our mouths touch, they fuse. We’re not laughing anymore. We’re digging into each other. It’s a kiss to make you fly. Deep, imprinting, hot. Our hands are everywhere on each other, squeezing and cupping. I can't grip his hair hard enough. I'm climbing his body with these rubbing movements, trying to grab more than I am capable of. Oh, how nothing has felt like this. I hate it. It agonizes me. I can't get enough.

A distant part of my brain is worried. I've attempted to engineer this kind of lofty, shuddering pressure, this rare and exhilarating hunger, this synergy expanding in my chest—but I have never gotten my formulas right. This isn't measured. I can't pick anyone out of a line-up. There is only him. Huan's mouth sucks on my tongue. His groan moves through me, a roiling mess of suffering and wanting. We're basically kissing so hard that it feels consumptive, as if there is a desperate search going on. The other mouth holds the answer. There is a timer. Don't stop until it's found.

But then, lungs need air.

And when we finally come up for some, I feverishly declare, “I’m spinning.”

Huan pins my arms as he gasps. He looks like a desperate and drowned man.

“Kiss me again,” I urge.

“You said you were spinning.”

“In the best way.”

He puts a hand on my cheeks. “You’re warm. How much alcohol have you had?”

“Only enough to get buzzed.”

“I’m taking you back to the hostel.” He hesitates. “Unless this is important to you, and you have to finish the bar crawl? Is that what you want? What do you need, Komal?”

I nestle my head against his shoulder.You.

He asks me again, smoothing a hand down my hair.

“Let’s go back,” I say.

To our private room.

SEVENTEEN

Huan

Floyd sits behind the front desk, legs propped against a filing cabinet. “There are no other rooms.”

“Check again.”

Without breaking eye contact with me, he clicks the computer mouse. “Yup. Nothing.”

“I see.”

Objectively, this teenager is not an obstacle. He’s not the enemy closing in on us, or an oil tycoon brandishing an Uzi after he’s learned his wife has stolen his yacht and left him. This isn’t a custody kidnapping or a ransom I’ve got to help negotiate.

And yet.

I want to tie him up and store him in the linen closet. Doable because I know the security cameras don’t reach there. He would squeak and squeal, and it would be a great distraction for me tonight.

And considering I spot the sticky note of computer passwords on his desk, I could hack the hostel booking program afterward. Impersonating an employee like Floyd and searchingfor accommodations doesn’t seem hard, especially when—I glance at the clock—most guests are asleep.

It can be done. Easily.

As I continue staring at him again, he rolls his eyes. “I did check earlier, but now I’m fake checking because nothing has changed. Looks like you’re sharing with Komal tonight, in which case I should mention the gym is closed. Someone spilled Jello over the equipment, which is unrelated to the fact that seeing you squat heavy weights is my personal hellscape.”

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