Don’t know if this is just heat—or something more.
Something deeper.
Something that might actually mean something.
Which is terrifying.
Because magic?
Magic isn’t real. Not for girls like me. Not in real life.
And yet—here I am.
Pinned between a marble counter and a man who makes my entire body feel like it’s lighting up from the inside out.
His hand slides slightly, thumb brushing the edge of my waist, and I feel it everywhere.
“Christ, Sunshine, you feel so damn good,” he whispers, and his lips brush mine.
Softer. But not less intense.
“David?” I breathe, because somewhere along the line I forgot what we were even arguing about.
Hurt gets replaced by need. Desire. Want.
And I can feel the echoing response in him. In the hardness pressed against my cleft. In the pounding of his heart against mine.
The kiss deepens until we’re both gasping for air.
My fingers find the hem of his shirt, and next, I’m lifting it, tracing his abs and the inky swirls there.
His mouth finds my neck.
And everything—everything—short-circuits.
I whimper.
Actually whimper—like some heroine from one of those old timey bodice rippers.
My nails bite into his skin, holding on because I suddenly need something to steady me.
This is what I mean.
This is the problem.
This man has me twisted in knots.
Five seconds ago I was ready to shove him out the door—now?
Now I’m melting for him. Again.
“You drive me fucking crazy, linda,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Yeah, well,” I manage, breath shaky, “join the club.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh, might be something darker.
And I should stop this.