me?” She steps closer.
I shrug. “It was my fault, which makes it my responsibility to make it right.”
“But it really doesn’t. And we’re at war, remember?”
Without thought, I move toward her, tracing my thumb over the generous bow of her bottom lip to remove the frosting. I bring my thumb to my mouth, sucking the sweet topping and gauging her reaction.
Her mouth pops open. Her eyes dilate, and an answering pulse responds throughout my entire body.
And just like that, everything inside me spills over, like a pot of boiling water left on high.
The strength of my own need is a shock to the core. It’s ridiculous. Improbable and completely self-indulgent. We’re completely wrong for each other.
And yet the memory of our first and last kiss hits me like a cast iron pan to the head. That wasn’t a fluke. Her scent overwhelms me, warm vanilla and sugar and I’m starving for it.
My body takes over my brain and I can only watch as my hands reach out and slide into her hair. I rest my thumbs on her cheeks, feeling the heat of her. I want it.
She doesn’t stop me, doesn’t pull away, even though I keep my hold light enough that all she has to do is move back.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she moves into me and tilts up, bringing herself so close, a mere inch is all that’s needed to bring our mouths together.
When her tongue slides against mine, I lift her onto the prep table. She spreads her legs easily and I step between them. Her hands are greedy little beggars, pulling my shirt from my pants and skipping up my back, exploring the tension, rubbing my spine like I’m a cat.
I groan and she gasps and then my hands are insatiable, untying her apron at her back so I can glide my fingers up the soft flesh of her stomach and up farther, cupping her breasts with light palms over her bra.
Her mouth leaves mine for a moment, but only so she can pull the apron off and then she’s unbuttoning her shirt with trembling fingers. I try to help her, but I can’t focus on anything but the creamy skin she’s exposing, and a sheer lavender bra that does little to hide her curves and shape.
With a moan, I sink in and suck at her breasts over her bra. She goes a little wild, holding my head in place while simultaneously trying to press our hips closer.
“Guy.” My name is a plea and the sensation of her cloth-covered nipple, hard in my mouth, along with her hips struggling for mine is almost too much. I’m no longer an experienced man, I’m back to being a teenage virgin.
And then my phone dings with incoming texts, three times in rapid succession.
The sound is like an alarm going off in both our heads. She rears back, her breathing erratic, and I release my hold, walking over to where I left my phone to check the message.
It’s a string of texts from Emma, mostly random emojis and one blurry picture of the side of her face. For someone with a nerve disorder who struggles to walk and even reach for things sometimes, the girl sure knows how to use a cell phone and iPad. Her timing is impeccable. She texts me mostly, and Oliver. At first, I was surprised they were communicating. Not that he’s a bad guy, or anything, you’d just think a billionaire would have better things to do with his time. But he’s always been one of the few people in my life who enjoys spending time with the girls and Emma gets a kick out of all the goat gifs he sends her.
I put the phone aside and stare at Scarlett across the room.
She’s staring at me, dazed, lips swollen. I did that. A surge of macho satisfaction sweeps through me and I walk back over to her, ready to pick up where we left off, but she glances around, as if just now realizing her position and yanks her legs and shirt together.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Her cheeks tinge pink.
My hands reach for her, but I force them down, clenching my fists at my sides. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“It’s just…this is . . .” One hand lifts and then drops in ineffectual gesturing.
“I know, I know.” I step back further. “I’m a butt-sniffing turd nugget.”
She bursts out a laugh and a smile tugs at my lips. I can’t believe I can smile