Casanova in training
He slid his hands around to cup her ass, bringing her flush to his blatant erection. “You could have said no.”
“I get the feeling that isn’t a word you hear very often.”
It was true. His call sign wasn’t Casanova without good reason. “Not too much.”
Her fingers stroked along the back of his neck. He felt on fire, both inside and out. Each step took them closer to the edge of the dance floor. By the time the song ended, the two of them were in a darker hallway.
He lowered his head, giving her half a second to stop him. She didn’t. Her mouth met his. She played the aggressor, sliding her tongue in and around his. Lust blazed to life in him and he ground into her, making his desire very clear. She moaned, a sexy sound—it came from the back of her throat and moved through him like electricity.
His grip on her grew possessive as he took control of the kiss. She tasted like mint. Not peppermint or spearmint. Raw mint. Pure mint. It was addictive as hell and he couldn’t get enough. The feel of her against him, the taste of her—together they lessened the pain that had consumed him since the accident.
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