At last, at long last, Holden brushes his lips to mine.
My breath catches, and my world tunnels to this moment, this touch. Nothing exists but the way he makes me feel. Sparks burst inside every cell, taking me hostage as his confident lips travel over mine.
He’s gentle but determined, exploring the terrain of my mouth like he’s mapping me with his desire.
My stomach swoops with every millimeter, every inch. Melting takes on a whole new meaning as all my cells go hot, as if I’m glowing like an incandescent lamp.
Maybe I am.
He kisses me that way—like he can light me up from head to toe, like he can ignite every molecule. His hands get in on the action too, as he slides his thumb more roughly along my jaw, possessively, even. One big hand cups my cheek, holding me in place.
All that anticipation crests, then careens down, rushing into full-blown desire, blasting into a new kind of need, here on the steps of the history building, under a canopy of trees, the sun dipping in the sky.
What have I become?
I’ve gone from a professional, focused woman to turn-me-inside-out Reese.
With one daring kiss.
Holden doesn’t let go. His hand slides into my hair, his strong fingers threading through my strands as his mouth discovers how I like to be kissed.
As I discover it too.
At the same time, we’re learning . . . me.
He’s tender in his touch but somehow commanding too, like he knows my after-dark dreams and wants to fulfill them.
And maybe he alone can.
I’m sure I’m reading too much into one kiss.
But then, I’ve never had a kiss like this before, one that reverberates in my marrow, that scrambles every thought.
It’s a kiss that doesn’t stop.
Instead, he changes tempo. He slows the pace, kissing slow and hot and deep. Then he shifts, gliding his mouth along my jawline, to my neck, to my ear, and I’m utterly lost.
Lost in the thrill of the best kiss in the world. His hands rope into my hair, his lips travel over my face, and his sexy sighs fill my ears.
“Holden,” I murmur, and his name is like melting chocolate on my tongue.
“Mmm.” That’s his response. Just a long, sexy hum as he flicks the tip of his tongue along the shell of my ear.
Tugging my earlobe between his teeth, he nips, biting down. For a second, I tense everywhere as a sharp pain blooms, but then it dissipates into a delicious, dizzying sensation.
He breaks the kiss, pulls back, and sweeps his gaze over me. His eyes are dark, glimmering with satisfaction and the promise of more pleasure. “So . . . want dinner?”
Dinner?
No.
I. Want. Him.
Fuck food.
I want Holden Kingsley with a wild kind of desperation.
I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.
Maybe I don’t need to be in love.
Maybe I don’t need to be in a serious relationship. Maybe I simply needed to meet the right guy at the right time.
Because I feel ready. So damn ready.
But should I tell him? Should I let him know I’m dying to experience things with him I’ve never felt before? That his kissing has unlocked a fervent wish in me? That, after twenty-two years and counting, I’m considering throwing in the towel tonight, if he’ll have me.
Curiosity has taken the wheel.
If he can kiss like that, I’m dying to know how he makes love.
Do I say that to him?
Should I say that?
That’s probably too much, too soon.
I need to think about what to say, how to ask for what I truly want.
Or whether I should say anything at all.
I lean in close, feeling as bold as I did when I asked him for the interview. “I would love to have dinner now.”
Can he hear the subtext in my voice?
He growls, and that’s close enough to a yes for me.
4
Holden
This was not in the plan.
But I’m writing a new one for the next few hours.
Instead of returning to my hotel room, studying up on the Texas Scoundrels starting pitcher, then hitting the sack early, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this time with the most captivating woman I’ve ever met.
Even though a nagging voice in the back of my mind warns that I should resist her—because I don’t do hookups, and this can’t go anywhere.
But I want it to.
Oh hell, do I want it to.
That’s unexpected; I didn’t think I wanted anything more than casual for a while. Not after the way my college girlfriend, Olivia, kicked me to the curb shortly after I was drafted to the minors in the unremarkable eighth round.
We’d made plans to stay together after graduation, but her plan, it seemed, wasn’t to date a minor leaguer.
A guy whose career was in flux.
Translation: why the hell couldn’t I have scored a fat signing bonus in the first round?
She walked away, and I vowed to focus on the game and only the game.
But fuck the past.
Screw plans.
Here I am.
All thanks to chemistry.
Only, there’s more going on with Reese than that. This thing brewing between us isn’t merely about hormones. There’s a connection that makes me want to get to know her, to understand her.
This attraction feels like a winning streak at the plate, and every good ballplayer knows the golden rule of the game—you don’t mess with a streak.
You honor the hell out of it.
So, we go to a nearby diner, an old-school one with green Formica counters and a sign beckoning in neon. “I loved this place when I went to school here.”
She agrees. “It hits me right in my retro-loving side.”
“Is that the side that’s wearing that red blouse?” I ask, my eyes swinging to her shirt.
She runs her fingers over the black buttons, a thoroughly distracting move. “You recognize the style.”
“You wear it well.”
“Thank you. I have a thing for vintage tops, and retro diners, and also trendy new clothes and the hippest new eateries.”
“So you like to hedge your bets. Make sure you’ve got a horse in every race.”
She laughs too. “Apparently. Or maybe I’m just a woman of varied tastes.”
“An excellent way to be,” I say.
We grab a booth near the back. I order the Asian chicken salad and she opts for the Cobb, then we return the menus to their spot behind the napkin holder. “Now and then you gotta go for a salad—athlete habit, right?”
With a sheepish grin, she shrugs. “Athlete habits die hard.”
“No need for them to die. You’re still an athlete,” I point out. “You said you’ll always play volleyball.”
“True. You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming away from the court, so I’m all about greens, protein, and new cuisines. Except,” she says, lifting a finger, “I’ll always make an exception for fries.”
“Ah, the universal french fry rule,” I say, adopting a wise man tone.
“It’s the ultimate exemption.”
“The grandfather clause of food.”
“Thou shalt not resist fries.”
“Wouldn’t that be a commandment?” I posit.
“Of course. Fries are on a biblical level.” She shoots me a curious glance from under her sexy lashes before her gaze drifts down. There’s a hint of a secret there, maybe even shyness.