Claire
Oh, my.
I can hear fireworks. A roar of noise.
That’s happening in the real world, I think.
But the flashing lights behind my eyelids are probably not external; that’s just my brain exploding. Because Mason Brody is kissing me.
I can hear my own heart beating in my ears, feel the blood pounding through the veins at my wrists, in my neck. I can practically feel my pulse in my lips as Mason covers my mouth with his, claiming it in a searing kiss that sends something very like bolts of electricity shooting to all my extremities.
And some other places as well.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his sweater as his tongue traces along my bottom lip and then finds its way into my mouth to touch mine. I kiss him back, helpless to do anything else.
His hands, which have been holding my upper arms, slide down to my waist, his fingers feathering along my ribcage then coming to rest on my hips. He takes a step forward and I’m forced to take a corresponding step back, then another. I feel the cold of the stainless steel refrigerator against my back, then Mason tilts his head and comes at my mouth from a new angle, sucking at the tip of my tongue as he molds himself against every curve of my body.
His hands slide down, down, and now he’s cupping the curve of my ass. I can feel his fingertips through the thin fabric of my dress as he fits himself against me. The bulge in his jeans presses against me and I see stars again. Suddenly, crazily, I want to open my legs, to let him settle in between my thighs and—
He pulls back, putting a few inches between us, and rests his forehead against mine. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are closed.
I stand very still.
“Okay,” he says, his voice ragged. “That got a little out of hand. I just meant to kiss you.”
“And you did,” I say. “Quite thoroughly.”
“I didn’t even ask.”
“I had plenty of time to object. You’re fine.”
He steps back and his hands drop to his sides. “I just don’t generally push women up against kitchen appliances and start dry-humping them.”
“Listen,” I tell him, “I was a teenager once, and I know dry-humping. That wasn’t it, okay?”
He laughs, runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, yes, but you get what I mean.”
“I do.” I shrug. “Chalk it up to midnight madness, I guess. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
He reaches out and takes my chin in his hand. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “I think you have the potential to be a very big deal, indeed.”
I’m speechless.
“But that’s a conversation for another time.” He lets go of my chin and sticks both hands awkwardly in the pockets of his jeans. “Are you going to buy the place?”
“I— I think so.”
“Then when you’re moved in and settled”—he hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the door he came through—“come down and knock. I’m not going to harass you about it. You let me know when you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?” I can’t help asking. “Cooking lessons, or …?”
“We’ll start with the lessons,” he says. “After that, who knows?”
Without taking his hands out of his pockets, he leans in, pressing me against the refrigerator and kissing me again, softly this time. Less like staking a claim. More like making a promise.
Then he turns and walks across the room and out the door. It closes quietly behind him, and I’m left standing, my fingers pressed to my tingling lips, wondering what the hell just happened.
And what happens next.