It’s his abs. They’re luring me in like a black hole to a galaxy of bad decisions. Philippe steps forward, and he hovers his hand near my arm. In response to his proximity, my hair prickles and goosebumps erupt under my sweater. He hasn’t even touched me yet, and already my body feels like it’s been soaked in gasoline and set on fire.
“Would it be okay if we practiced a kiss? Like you said?”
“I—I think I said hand-holding.”
“You’re standing at my bathroom door looking so terrified that there might as well be a herd of gluten-eating zombies chasing you. Your eyes are huge, and you’re breathing strangely. I can also see your pulse hammering at your neck. If you want to practice hand-holding, I’m good with that, but if you want something else…”
I thrust out my hand like I’m the gluten-eating zombie. Philippe doesn’t take it like a normal person, though. No, of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he takes it, sending me into a near cardiac arrest, and raises my knuckles to his lips. My heart goes wild—skittering and beating all over the place. Now I think I can see my pulse at my neck as it’s jumping so erratically. His lips are warm. Smooth. He turns my hand over, and my whole arm is limp. My fingers too. I have no strength left to resist. I don’t want to resist. Slowly, he dips his head and kisses my wrist, making flames lick up my arm. He rakes his lips over my palm, scalding me. I close my eyes, so sure it couldn’t get any better, but then his lips part, and he sucks my finger into his mouth. His Warm. Wet. Wonderful. Mouth. His tongue swirls over it, and my legs threaten to buckle.
“Not…clean,” I stammer. “My finger. Probably dirty. Didn’t wash my hands.” I can barely formulate any words as I’m now so tongue-tied, drowning in the headiness I’m feeling.
Philippe pulls back but keeps a hold of my hand as he slowly licks his way from the tip of my index finger down to my knuckle. “Do you think it actually matters to me?” he asks huskily.
There’s more than a tingle in my lady dingle now. I feel like I’ve just grabbed onto a brick and fallen into a lake of water—the lake between my legs. I inhale sharply to try and gain control of myself, but instead, I breathe in the scent of my own arousal.
If I can smell it, can Philippe smell it?
I should stop this. I shouldn’t be bending, shouldn’t be reaching out, shouldn’t be cupping Philippe’s smooth, silky face. His cheeks are like satin and cream while his jaw produces a slight burn against the palms of my hands. He has more than a shadow going on, and the rasp of his stubble is like a lightning bolt straight to my clit. I should be turning around and getting the heck out of here, not standing on my tiptoes in heels. Yes, I still have them on. And no, I’m still not nearly as tall as Philippe.
He meets me halfway before I can change my mind. There’s something burning between us—more chemistry than in a science lab. I need to find out what it is, how it feels. What is happening. I want to experiment, even if we accidentally blow each other up.
Philippe’s lips descend to mine. The kiss explodes between us, blowing us up, alright. I might as well have just stuck a fork in a light socket. I feel tingling jolts all over me and a wild hunger I’ve never experienced. We attack each other’s mouths, and Philippe kisses me like he’s punishing me for the journal. I kiss him back like there really is a zombie horde behind me, and his kiss is the only thing that can ensure my survival.
My hands fall away from his face as one hand lands in his hair. My fingers tangle there, savoring the impossibly soft strands. He probably uses four-hundred-dollar shampoo. I’ve never actually had to order it for him, thank god. My other hand lands on his shoulder, and I sink my nails into the rock-hard muscle as far as I can, because yeah, he seriously is that hard. I sway against him, shamelessly thrusting my pelvic region into somewhere not even near his. I know this because I can feel his bulge, a HUGE bulge, throbbing near my belly button.
“Philippe,” I moan into his mouth. “God, you taste good. So good.” I tear my mouth from his and lick at his jaw, his chin, his neck.
“Sweaty,” he grunts.
“Don’t care,” I grunt back. God, I’ve turned into a cave person.
I don’t, though. He’s delicious. Salty. Masculine. Earthy. I inhale him, drink him in. I want to drown in him. He smells good. Like a mixture of expensive cologne and male sweat. Just so uniquely him. Delicious. All of it.