22. A Champagne Kiss
22
A CHAMPAGNE KISS
Harlow
The second the driver closes the door, Bridger blurts out, “What if every episode of Afternoon Delight starts with a letter. It’s framed around a letter, a love letter that reveals some of the protagonist’s past?”
The hair on my arms stands on end. “That’s brilliant!”
“You like it?”
“I love it,” I say, and as the car weaves through the Village, we trade ideas for the Afternoon Delight story. Then, when I explain the pub crawl style of the love letters exhibit, he says confidently, with not a shred of concern, “We should go together tomorrow night. To the next exhibit. And to the last one.”
Together .
He’s made a move.
Toward me.
A huge one.
“Yes. Yes,” I say again, giddy on ideas, on us, on this night.
Bridger looks the same. Lit up, a little high.
“Is this how it feels to drink champagne?” I ask in a whisper.
He’s quiet, his brow knitting, his eyes darkening. Then he says, “I think you’re what it feels like to drink champagne.”
My heart stutters.
His jaw clenches. Then he takes a sharp breath through his nostrils. Closes his eyes. He’s working through the problem of me again.
Let him. Let him solve the problem. The only solution he’ll find for me is, well, me .
When he opens his eyes, they’re wild and fiery.
He beckons. One finger. That’s all. I’m so there. I move in seconds, climb on top of him, hiking up my skirt, straddling his lap.
His hands curl around my hips in no time.
God, this feels so good. Me on him. His hands on me. Us touching. Everywhere.
“Harlow,” he says, like my name is his breath.
“Have some champagne,” I say.
Then, he wraps his hands around my waist. I rope mine around his neck. There’s a pause, heated, fragrant. I can smell both of us wanting.
Needing.
My stomach whooshes. I ache as I wait for him to kiss me. But no kiss comes. Instead, he lifts his hand from my hip, then traces my bottom lip with it.
Then my top lip.
Next, he brushes his finger along my chin, my jawline, over the shell of my ear.
Somehow, it’s both more tender and more thrilling than a kiss. It’s like he’s memorizing me with his hands. Drawing me, remembering me.
For when he can’t do this .
But I ignore that voice of doom as best I can.
Here and now, in this car, cruising through the Manhattan night on some avenue, some street, in some time, I’m his to have.
As he runs two fingers down my cheek, he regards the path they’re traveling. His fingers return to my lips, and it’s like they’re kissing me. Then, he is. His lips are on mine, but they’re softer, gentler than they have been before.
Who knew Bridger was such a tease?
He’s barely touching me. He’s hardly kissing at all. And I just want .
And I squirm, then sink down on his lap. Feeling the outline of him.
He groans, bordering on a growl.
I rock against the ridge of his erection. The growl turns more carnal, and I feel wicked. “You’re teasing me,” I say, a simple observation.
“And you like it,” he says.
“Love it,” I counter.
He nuzzles my neck. “Mmm. Me too.”
His hands explore me more, traveling down my arms, over my thighs, along the fabric of my blouse. He doesn’t undress me. But he returns to my mouth, taking little hits. A tug on my bottom lip. A sip of my mouth. A taste of me.
If this isn’t a champagne kiss, I don’t know what is. I am bubbly. I am intoxicated. And I’ve never been so aroused before.
Soon, I’m rocking against him, and when I let out a long, breathy moan, he grunts.
Then he grabs my face. Hard. He jerks me against him, kissing me relentlessly for several hot, mind-bending seconds. As he devours my mouth, he drops one hand down to my legs, where he grips my right thigh.
Tightly. Like he’s handcuffing himself.
Oh, Bridger. Let me help you along .
I grab that hand, break the kiss, and meet his gaze. “Touch me,” I say, then guide his hand under my skirt.
“Yeah?” He’s trembling with desire. He’s breaking and it’s exhilarating to watch.
“Please,” I say, and I’m both begging and in charge at the same damn time.
He closes his eyes, like he’s offering a prayer to the gods of restraint. But they don’t answer him. Desire does, because when he opens his eyes, he lets his hand travel up my thigh, mercifully heading for my center.
Then, his fingers graze my soaked panties.
And we both groan.
“Oh fuck, honey,” he rumbles.
That’s all it takes. In a second, his fingers slide under my panties, and his mouth crashes down on mine, and I’m in dirty heaven.
I sigh into his mouth, kissing him back, but it’s messy because I can’t focus. I can only feel the exquisite pleasure between my thighs as he strokes me.
Breaking the kiss, but not the contact, he rasps out, “Look at you. Just fucking look at you.”
I can’t, of course, but that’s not the point. He’s looking at me. Staring like I’m precious and filthy at the same time.
“So wet, so fucking beautiful,” he praises, then he buries his face against my neck, laying desperate kisses all along my skin as he slides his fingers across my center, faster and faster.
His thumb finds where I’m pulsing for him.
I cry out. It’s never been like this, not alone, not by myself. Ever.
“God. Please. Yes,” I say.
Until the words spill into each other.
Until I’m shaking, trembling everywhere.
Until the agony of pleasure becomes excruciating.
I rock faster, ride harder, and then I shatter. I moan so loud, he cups a hand over my mouth. “Shh, honey,” he urges.
But I can’t stop crying out, even with his hand quieting me.
I can’t because I’m buzzing, floating, blissed out beyond words.
And when I open my eyes and look at him, he looks drunk too. “Better than all the champagne in the world,” he says. Then he kisses me.
It’s a soft, firm kiss, almost like a promise.
Then he licks off his fingers, sending another aftershock of pleasure through me before he grabs a tissue from the console. When he’s done, the car’s near my home, the familiar buildings mocking me as my night with him ends.
“Can you come up? I want to…” I lean in close, whisper, “Return the favor.”
He sighs, then shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says.
My heart aches.
It’s not even the loss of…touching.
It’s the way we keep ending.
The car idles. He strokes my hair. “I wish things were different,” he says.
“Me too,” I say. I lower my gaze to his shirt and reach for the cuffs, fiddling with them, wanting to delay time.
“It’s just so many things. Like, how hard it is not to look at you at the office,” he says, resigned. Then, he cups my cheek, his voice gentle. “I don’t want you to get in trouble. With anyone . And I don’t want to be boycotted.”
I wince at that last, terrible possibility. “I won’t let that happen,” I say, and he laughs once, humorlessly. “I’d never say anything.
“I know, honey. It’s not you I worry about,” he says, then shakes his head. “It’s others, and then where would you be? Where would I be? I’d have to start over.”
I wish this situation were a passage in French I could translate, a piece of art I could analyze. Something I know how to handle intrinsically. But this is harder, and it’ll take a new level of strategy to overcome.
I should go. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?” I ask, choosing to believe I will. Choosing two more nights for now.
“Of course,” he says. “The Bettencourt.”
It’s not a date, but it’s a promise. We at least have two more nights. Time for me to devise a new plan.
I slide off him, grab my phone, adjust my skirt, and reach for the handle.
“Wait.”
My pulse sings. I turn to him, eager.
“I have something for you,” he adds.
“What is it?” I ask, but he’s already unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his white T-shirt underneath. It fits him like a dream, stretched tight across his strong chest.
Then my gaze strays to his arms. I haven’t seen him like this before—where I’ve had permission to look freely . Where I’ve been able to stare at the muscles, the ink on his forearm. Where I’ve been able to touch. I reach for him and trace the lines of the tattoo on his right arm. Quietly. Wordlessly.
He shudders as I travel along the vines drawn on his skin, curling around a small stack of books. Why does he have this? Sure, I can guess, but I want to know his reason. But now’s not the time to ask about his ink. I’ve been given a gift just to touch it, to touch him.
My heart skids against my rib cage. He is beautiful.
And he will be mine.
I let go, and he blinks like he’s floating back to earth. Then he hands the crisp orange shirt to me, and I press it to my nose, inhaling him, inhaling our secret.
After another searing kiss, he strokes my cheek. “Take a picture in it. Send it to me.”
I will.