“Hi,” she breathes, taking a single step in my direction.
Whatever expression she sees on my face makes Grace drop her purse. She throws her arms around my neck and I catch her up in a bear hug, lifting her straight off the ground. I can’t help it—I groan brokenly at the feel of her body, the cherry cola scent that rushes straight to my head. My groin. I haven’t felt whole since Friday night when I drove away from her house, I realize. This is whole. When she’s in my arms.
“God, Gracie. How did I miss you so much?”
She rolls her forehead against mine, her breath coming out in a stuttered pattern. “I missed you, too. I don’t know how I made it through yesterday.”
Her honesty is the knockout blow to my self-control and I kiss her hungrily, tasting that initial gasp on her tongue, memorizing the way she gathers the collar of my one nice shirt in her hands, slanting right and opening her lips for me. Letting my tongue slide in deep, deep, everything moving in slow motion, the earth allowing me to get a hit of my drug. Our tongues wind together and pull, a sense of possessiveness powering through me. Oh yeah. Mine. We start easy, taking our time, but soon we’re messy and frantic, my right hand molded to her ass through that short fucking skirt, holding her tight to my lap.
The kiss has a lot to do with sex. There’s no doubt of that.
Before the day is over, we’re going to end up naked.
Grace isn’t leaving Southie a virgin. There’s just no way an attraction like this can go unsatisfied. It’s not typical. It’s not normal. It’s demanding and raw and vital and vicious.
This attraction hurts.
There’s more than sex inspiring the desperate movements of our mouths, though. It’s almost like this is our new method of breathing. I’m not sure how life was possible before now. How I got up out of bed every day without being able to kiss Grace. And the way her heart slams up against mine? Those broken sounds coming from her throat? They tell me that by some miracle, she feels this way, too. Jesus, it’s a miracle.
I have no idea what we’re going to do about it.
We’re from different worlds.
But for today, I just want to forget all about the differences in our economic statuses and be with her. Soak up every blissful second I’m given.
I back Grace against the car and she moans, starting to wrap her legs around my hips—and that’s when I know I have to break the kiss or risk plowing her in broad daylight, right here up against this fancy Porsche. Calling on every ounce of my will, I take my tongue out of her perfect mouth and press her face into my neck, stroking a hand down the back of her hair. “Damn, Gracie.” I gather her up to me as tightly as possible. “How long do I have you for?”
“Until tonight.” She lays her cheek on my chest. “I usually have an early dinner with my father at the club on Sundays, but I told him I needed to do some research at the library for an extra-credit assignment. He gets home around eight and I should try and be home by then.”
“Eight,” I repeat, unable to believe my luck. “That’s almost the whole day.”
She stiffens slightly. “I…I mean, I don’t have to stay the whole time. I just thought—”
“I want every second.” I tip her chin up, surprised to find her looking a little self-conscious. How the hell is that even possible? “Hey. Whoa. There are no doubts here between us. If you can give me time, please give me the time. I want it so fucking bad. Every minute you can spare me. You doubt that?”
After a minute, she shakes her head. “No.”
“Good.” I kiss her forehead. “We don’t doubt. Say it.”
“We don’t doubt,” she whispers, her breath bathing my neck.
She lifts her eyes to mine and I’m rocked with a sense of purpose. This girl—this angel—is in my care for the entire day. It’s barely started and this is already the greatest day of my life.
“Your car should be safe out here, now that I’ve mauled you in front of the entire neighborhood.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh you didn’t know?” I duck my head, sliding my open mouth up and down the side of her neck, making her shiver. My hands curl into fists at the small of her back, stopping just short of clutching that ass. Later. “Your boyfriend has a reputation for fighting. And winning.”
Our gazes light on one another at the term boyfriend—and when she doesn’t question it, my blood pumps faster, hotter. With purpose. With fucking joy. “No one messes with you,” she whispers. “And so no one messes with me?”