Page 6 of The Irresistible Distraction

His hand on mine tightens briefly, his eyebrows rising as if he’s surprised by my observation. But instead of answering seriously, he lets the moment pass, reaffirming my understanding that this isn’t that kind of conversation. Sexy Tourist/Clark Gable is happy to ask me probing questions, but unlikely to share anything deep about himself. Meaning I should mind my boundaries.

This is flirtation.

Surface-level.

His hand moves to my wrist, his thumb stroking my quickening pulse. He shrugs. “If you’d prefer not to use me as the anonymous confidant of your dreams, I am open to being utilized in other ways as well; it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve sacrificed my body for the greater good.”

“No doubt at significant personal cost.”

“Surrendering myself on the altar of revenge sex is my favorite form of community service.”

“I’m not sure Maggie meant it that way.”

“Perhaps she didn’t. But I have excellent self-editing filters. Thus, I translated your friend’s words in a way that optimizes my well-being.”

I chuckle because this man’s charm is so slick it’s almost soothing. “Truthfully, I’ve never understood the reasoning behind sleeping with one man if you’re thinking of another.”

“The point of revenge sex, intercourse worthy of being labeled the sex, or any other manner of physical intimacy, is that when done correctly, it consumes you. Meaning you ought to be incapable of worrying about trivialities like logic, other people, even to-do lists and broken showerheads.”

Though his words are compelling, it’s never been like that for me; I don’t lose myself in the moment. Part of me is always worrying about what happens next.

Except . . . today, just once, I allow myself to act illogically.

Perhaps it’s because I am tired of being the responsible one.

Perhaps I’m grateful to this too-attractive man-boy for treating me like someone worth pursuing.

Maybe I want a chance at this physical chemistry people write poems about, as though it’s a living, tangible thing.

Or maybe I want a vacation from myself, even if it is, by definition, ephemeral.

“Prove it.” I lean forward and lick my lips, watching as he notices. “Prove to me a kiss can make me stop . . . thinking.”

3

TWO CREAMS AND THREE SPLENDAS

The expression that spreads across his face ought to scare me. It is more wolf than man, more heat than any other traditionally identifiable expression. Within seconds, he has closed the distance between us.

“Gladly,” he murmurs, a moment before his lips meet mine.

Even as I’m adjusting to the warm weight of his mouth, his large, very solid body crowds into my space, effortlessly pulling me toward him, past the stool that theoretically separated us. He spreads his legs and uses a hand at my back to inch me forward, our lips never losing contact as he repositions me so that I’m standing between his legs, the warmth of his thighs seeping through the layers of his jeans and my skirt. My hands are pressed against his chest, and as he nibbles at my lower lip, my fingers curl into the soft material, as if needing a place to anchor myself.

It is still, technically, only a kiss, the very beginning of our embrace, and yet it already feels like a full-body experience.

His mouth is warm and inviting, his cologne spicy and all-encompassing in a way that wraps around me, a sensory experience I’m eager to breathe in. He allows me a moment of control, of getting used to the heat of a mouth against mine, before he deepens the kiss.

It takes almost no coaxing for my lips to open, as his large hands bracket my face, tilting my head upward to give him better access. Of their own accord, my arms rise to twine up and into his hair, as if fastening his lips to mine, fusing our breaths more tightly together as his hands trail down, his fingers fanning out to caress my jaw and neck, his touch featherlight in a way that makes me want to press into him, bind myself to him.

He scoots another crucial inch closer until I can feel the insistent hardness of his erection in a way that tells me this has escalated. Rapidly. More quickly than I’m mentally prepared for, than I’ve ever experienced before.

But before my thoughts can spin, his hands are on my waist, his touch burning through the clothes that now feel almost itchy against my too-sensitive skin.

“You taste delicious.”

“I probably taste”—I inhale a deep breath, which is difficult—“like leftover cookies.”

“Delectable.”