But this kiss feels nothing like an argument. It feels likeall the things that should be whispered. Like things we never said but wanted to.
When he pulls away with overlapping kisses, he touches his forehead to mine.
We’re out of breath from our tongues swirling and lips overlapping. This man plays professional football for a living and he’s the perfect spokesman for a treadmill or bike commercial. He has stamina. Yet he goes slow.
My lips still burn from the kiss, and his eyes comb over my face like he’s waiting for the moment I pull away.
For regret.
For reality to crash back in.
It doesn’t.
And maybe that’s the most alarming part.
I should tell him this can’t happen again. Should draw a line before we blur beyond recognition.
But I don’t.
His thumb drags across my bottom lip, lingering there, and the look in his eyes says he’s searching for something—permission, restraint, maybe even a reason to stop.
“That’s the part you should probably analyze,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. “Because I’ve wanted to do that since college, so apparently my judgment’s been compromised for years.”
And just then, what comes from my mouth is a reflex. “You’re still late. All the time.”
For one beat, he just stares, then laughs, the sound brushing over my skin like silk.
“There she is.”
I take one shaky step back because if I don’t, I’ll kiss him again and I’m not ready for what that might mean.
He stands his ground, surveying my face, searching for something and asks, “Are we calling a truce?”
I press my lips together as his fingers run over my blouse.
“No,” I say, my tone softer than I intended. It should be strong, certain, professional.
It’s not.
His grin forms, slow and methodic until his dimples dig deeper and an easy smile shines on his face. “Good,” he mutters. “I’d hate to think a simple kiss would make you go easy on me.”
And just like that, my pulse kicks up all over again.
TWELVE
PARKER
I kissed my performance coach.
Let’s just start there. Because that sentence has been running laps in my brain like it’s trying to break a world record of the most incredibly reckless things to do.
The woman who hates me and the woman I despise, at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I would be a liar if I said I still feel the same way.
I’m interested, infatuated and one hundred percent invested in her.
I’m standing on the green turf holding a football, staring at absolutely nothing, replaying the moment our lips touched for the millionth time.
The way her face fit perfectly in my hand.