Love Me Forever - Juliana Stone Page 0,38

all of two seconds, she stayed like that, and then, with a soft sigh, Poppy melted into him like she belonged there. Like she’d never left.

As a smoky voice heavy with whiskey and heartache washed over them, he slowly moved her deeper into the shadows and slid one hand down to rest at the small of her back, while the other entwined in all that silky hair at the back of her head. She looked up at him, mouth slightly open, eyes as big as the moon, and he bent lower.

He swept his mouth over hers, a soft question as he tested her reaction. There was no need, because Poppy opened beneath him, her mouth demanding and aggressive as they moved to the music. They kissed like the two teenagers they’d been all those years ago, hungry and aching and insistent. There were no words, only taste and touch and feel, as they swayed in the shadows that fell from the edge of the stage.

They made out as if the world was on fire and time was nearly up, and when the song finally ended, Boone dragged his lips away and rested his forehead against hers. He was losing control. In public. Again. Christ, what was it about her that made him feel like a horny fifteen-year-old who’d never had sex before?

He took a moment and then looked down at her. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to fill up the space between them. But she shook her head and took a step back. She held his gaze a heartbeat longer, chest heaving and cheeks flushed under the stage lights. Her tongue darted out and swept across lips made swollen by his. It was subtle and so fucking erotic, everything in him tightened. She lifted her chin. An invitation? A challenge? Or both.

Whatever it was, her expression would drive a priest to sin. A half smiled touched her face as she turned and started for the exit. Boone didn’t care who watched and whispered behind raised hands. He didn’t think about small-town dynamics and the fact that he and Poppy had already stirred up the gossip mill.

He did what any other red-blooded American male would do.

He followed.

Chapter Thirteen

Poppy would like to say it was the wine that made her do it. But that was a lie only the dumbest person on the planet would believe—for a few reasons. One, she’d only had one glass earlier in the evening with Link, and she’d hardly made it past one beer at the Coach House. And two, the way Boone had looked at her—like she was dessert and he had a raging sweet tooth—well, it had filled her up with the kind of feminine power she hadn’t felt in years. Not since LA.

And for that alone, she would have invited the devil himself back for seconds and thirds. Heck, probably even fourths. She’d rode that high right out of the Coach House, and it lifted her feet across the parking lot. It pretty much carried her to her car until Boone grabbed her hand and led her to his truck. He didn’t ask—but then, she didn’t resist. They’d fled into the night like a couple of kids on their way to do something they shouldn’t. And now, as she stood at her door, key in hand, the doubt bunnies were back, bouncing up and down on her heart and lungs until she found it hard to breathe.

What am I doing?

Aware of the man behind her, she blew out a slow breath. But then Boone made a noise, a rough sort of sound, and that make her think of the look in his eyes, the one that said I love strawberry shortcake and I want dessert, and hello, her lady parts roared to life. They said to hell with those damn bunnies. She exhaled and shoved the key into the hole, pushed open the door, and Boone followed her inside.

It was dark—she’d forgotten to leave a light on—and she nearly tripped over Mabel, who was sprawled on her back directly in Poppy’s path.

“Hey,” she said breathlessly as she managed to scramble over her dog and get to the light switch. She turned around to say something—anything—to Boone, but the words dried up at the sight of him bent over Mabel, giving her a scratch behind the ears while the dog completely surrendered to him.

“Traitor,” she said softly, pushing back at the lump in her throat.

Boone was dressed as he’d been earlier: work