Virgin Daiquiri - Elise Faber Page 0,19

reason, not because it was insane he was attracted to me, not even because of the whole he was gorgeous, and I was not thing.

I’d thought myself into a tiny compact ball, reduced everything good about me for way too long.

Now was the time to be kinder.

Now was the time for me to finally embrace that I deserved to find some happy.

Now was the time for me to go after something I wanted.

Today . . . that was Brent.

Tomorrow? Maybe it would be Brent covered in cherry pie filling as I slowly licked it off his body. I grinned at myself in the mirror then reached for my jacket just as the doorbell rang.

“You got this,” I told the optimistic woman in the reflection.

The one that I almost didn’t recognize.

The one I wanted to keep around anyway.

I made it down the stairs in record time, clomping in my chunky-heeled booties across the hardwood floor to tug open the door.

“Hi,” I said, a little breathless from the jog to the front of the house, but mostly breathless because it was Brent . . . and fuck could the man wear a suit. It was deep navy with a bright white shirt underneath. No tie, which was a shame because the outfit definitely gave me the urge to take him by the tie and drag him into the next room. But the shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way up, so I contented myself with fantasizing about caressing that triangle of exposed skin with my tongue . . . then maybe showing him how good my unbuttoning skills were as I made my way down.

I was good at shirt buttons.

But I thought I was even better at pants buttons.

Hadn’t had a lot of experience with undoing belts, however . . .

Which was preciously the point—my gaze firmly locked on said belt (which was in a killer shade of dark brown that also matched a cool pair of shoes that weren’t old-man frumpy, but instead model-worthy)—that I realized I hadn’t said anything aside from Hi, and that had been a good two minutes earlier.

I tore my eyes from the belt and brought them up to Brent’s face.

Then realized he hadn’t been speaking either.

Because his gaze was on me . . . or rather on my body. I shivered when it drifted slowly back up, almost as though he were tangibly tracing my curves, my skin prickling and goose bumps rising on its surface, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my bra.

And he saw my body’s reaction.

Or, at least, I suspected it. Because my nipples got tingly and then his face changed, need sharpening his features as his eyes lingered there for a long moment before they eventually moved up to mine.

Heat.

Scalding brown eyes that threatened to set my body on fire.

He cleared his throat. “That’s some dress, darlin’.”

I nibbled my lip, started to murmur a “thanks,” but suddenly I found myself in his arms, pulled flush against that broad chest of his, getting a close-up view of the heat in his gaze. “And then you had to go and bite that gorgeous mouth of yours,” he said, a mix of velvet and gruff that slid over my skin, arrowing heat directly for my pussy. “I can’t have you abusing this mouth.” He brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, making my breath hitch. “Can I?”

If me abusing meant he’d hold me like this or hopefully kiss me like it was imminent based on his expression, then I was definitely going to keep the lip nibbling.

His palm slid up my side, fingertips drifting on the outside of my bottom ribs, skating along my arm, drifting up my throat before coming to a stop on my jaw. “Can I?” he asked again.

Cinnamon on his breath, glazing my lips like the most delicious frosting on Earth.

Calloused fingertips caressing my skin.

A hard chest against mine.

Our mouths perfectly aligned because of my heels.

Check. Check. Check—

I stopped cataloging, stopped thinking.

I closed the distance between our mouths.

Perfection. His lips on mine were utter perfection, and for one inane moment, I was glad I hadn’t worn lipstick because I knew this was the kind of kiss that would obliterate the most carefully applied liner and stain. Especially when he managed to part my lips from one heartbeat to the next, his tongue sliding home, and reminding me why I’d lost a piece of my sanity under the mistletoe at Bobby’s on Christmas Eve.

The man could kiss.

Gently coaxing one moment then his