Chapter 5
5
Sloane
He lingers on my lips as if he’s delighting in every second of the exploration, every moment of the connection, like a chef would when tasting a new concoction.
He laces his fingers through my hair and tugs me closer, and if I were an old robot in a sci-fi flick, I’d boop, beep, and short-circuit, then fry out.
Because holy overload of sensation. Sweet, hot sparks rush across me, sweeping over every square inch. My pulse skyrockets, and desire winds its way through every cell.
This man can kiss. And something else I know?
This man wants me.
Badly.
He’s pressed against me, the delicious length of him thick and insistent, a tantalizing tease of what’s to come.
Namely, me.
In a flash, I can see the night playing out. We go to his place or a hotel. He gets me naked, sends me soaring, and we have pancakes in the morning.
I do love orgasms and pancakes.
But something feels different with this guy.
Not like he can’t give me orgasms and pancakes.
But something tells me he’s not the guy you go to bone town with on the first night. I bet when I go there with him, it’ll be an all-night-long seduction. It’ll be moonlight and fireworks and luxurious time spent exploring my body, learning my every desire, pleasuring me until I can’t see straight. That’s how he kisses. Like a man intent on delivering bliss to the woman he’s with. To the woman he wants. And that woman is me.
This feels like it has potential. So much potential to be real. As he deepens the kiss, my mind blurs into the sort of bliss that only an epic first kiss can deliver. It’s an unraveling kind. He kisses with his whole body, with passion and fervor and heat.
And I know—I’m certain—he’s not a one-and-done guy.
But since I’m a straightforward woman, and I want him to know my score, I break the kiss, press my hands to his chest, and sigh happily, albeit a little woozily. “You sure can kiss.”
His lips quirk up in a lopsided grin. “It helps that I’ve been thinking all night about kissing you.”
I clear the frog from my throat. “But listen. I need you to know I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl. As much as I’d like to strip you naked and do bad things to you?—”
“What kinds of bad things?” He wiggles his brow. “I like bad things. Feel free to elaborate, and please be as specific as you can.”
I laugh. “All kinds. All kinds involving lips and mouths and tongues and more. But don’t distract me.”
He murmurs his appreciation as he wraps his hand around my hip. “You distracted me. You definitely distract me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
The term of endearment floods me with warmth, like I’m glowing. I try to center myself and focus on what I’m trying to tell him. “As I was saying, I want to take things slow. If that doesn’t work for you, I understand. But it’s the only way that will work for me.”
He lowers his hands, finds mine, threads his fingers through them, and squeezes. “Let’s go to a diner and get something to eat. We can talk as long as you want. And then I’ll put you in a cab back to Hoboken. Until tomorrow.”
I shoot him an inquisitive look. “Tomorrow? Are you seeing me tomorrow?”
He scoffs as we walk along the cobbled sidewalk next to the park. “Did you already forget? We made plans for a second date, woman. I’m not letting you back out.”
I laugh. “I don’t want to back out. I want to see you again. I thought that was clear.”
He looks at me, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “This whole night is incredibly clear.”
I smile at him like I can’t hold back. “It’s the same for me.”
I walk on air to the diner, and I float all through the meal as we chat, and exchange numbers.
After, he kisses me under a streetlight outside the restaurant. When he breaks the kiss, he hums a line from the song “I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You.”
I run my thumb across his lips. “But you do.”
Then I deliver a soft, sweet kiss.
He presses his forehead to mine, and he whispers, “What am I going to do with you, Sloane Elizabeth?”
Inside, quietly, in the back of my head, I say fall in love with me .
Then I wonder where that wild, crazy thought came from. But it came from this unexpected night, from this unexpected evening with a man who sang a most romantic tune.
“I think you should do exactly what you’ve been doing,” I tell him.
He hails a cab, and when it arrives, he opens the door, but then he yanks me in close. “Ah, hell. I need one more for the road.”
He hauls me in for a kiss that is neither soft nor sweet. It is hot and desperate and urgent. And I’m sure it’s going to piss off the cabby. But Malone doesn’t seem to care as he kisses me ruthlessly, letting me know that as much as he can be sweet, he can be rough. He can consume me; he can be hard and greedy. He kisses me like he’s going to leave whisker burn on me, and I want it. I want to be marked by him.
He puts me in the cab for good and hands the cabby enough money to cover the trip and probably a little extra, a tip for the excruciating wait through the kiss. I turn around as the car peels away, and I watch him through the back window until I can’t see him anymore.
The entire drive home, I replay the night. I replay every single moment. Reliving us . This is the night I want to live in.
I look down at my feet. My shoes are still black. But they do feel like glass slippers.
* * *
The next morning, Piper emerges from her room, yawns heavily, then lifts her brow in curiosity. “Did you network to your heart’s content?”
I smile as I brew some coffee. “I did, and I also met someone.”
I tell her about Malone, every detail, as we drink our beverages.
She listens thoughtfully, then asks, “And what’s next?”
“I’ll see him again tonight.”
But I can’t shake the notion that the other shoe might drop.