Page 40 of Proposal Play
“Then let me help you remember,” he says. I expect him to come in for a kiss, but instead, he takes his time, lifting a hand and running a finger across my lower lip.
Like I did moments ago at the table. I tremble. He knew what I was doing then—recalling the kiss.
But the other thing I realize is…he noticed.
Does Asher watch me?
The bold part of me wants to ask him that question—when in Vegas, after all. But the part of me that likes how he’s setting the pace waits for him to go next.
He lowers his hand, meets my eyes with his darkened ones. “Does that help you remember how I turned you on so much with our wedding kiss that you bet on another one at the roulette table?”
I’m so obvious, and he likes it. “Is that what you think happened?” I ask coyly, testing him. I’ve never known what Asher’s like after dark, of course. Haven’t really thought about it much either. Now, my curious mind is buzzing with questions.
His gaze locks on mine. “I don’tthinkit. I know that’s what happened.”
My heart stutters. Is my life-of-the-party, emotionally astute, shoulder-to-lean-on friend a bossy man in the bedroom?
Please say yes, universe.
Wait. I can’t think that. I really can’t. Except, I am. And I want more of it, so I tease him with a bob of my shoulder and a flirty, “Maybe.”
There’s a rumble in his throat. Then, he says, “Pretty sure it is…wife.”
My breath hitches from the thoroughly possessive way he uttered one word. “Okay. You’re right,” I murmur.
“I know,” he says, and he cups my jaw, stroking it slowly.
Is my jaw an erogenous zone? Well, it sure seems it is, since I feel like a cat, purring, leaning into his hand, moving with him as his thumb explores the line of my jaw. I’m shivery from what he’s doing. He slides the pad of his thumb up to my ear, tracing the shell with a light caress. He hasn’t even dropped his mouth to mine again. He hasn’t even dipped his face near me.
And yet, I’m melting inside.
“We’re not practicing kissing,” I whisper, but my eyes are fluttering closed and I’m not sure my thoughts are truly coherent. I feel like a chocolate bar in the sun right now, and it’s all from his fingers on my face.
He tips my chin up, forcing me to look at him. My eyesfloat open. Asher’s green irises are usually clever, inviting. Now they’re mesmerizing, glimmering. They’re…a little filthy too.
“We are, Maeve,” he says, firm, commanding. “We are practicing kissing.”
My brow knits. I’m a little confused. “But?—”
Then, he shuts me up by pressing a finger to my lips. “Do you think a good kiss only involves lips?”
“Well…”
He shakes his head. “A kiss doesn’t start with lips. It starts with want. With desire. With anticipation,” he says, and I whimper from his words and the way they’re tugging low in my belly. Then, he slides a hand down my bare arm, watching as the little hairs on my arm rise up. “It starts with other people looking at you. Thinking they have a chance with you. And being so fucking wrong.”
My chest burns from his seductive words. “Why are they wrong?”
He dusts a thumb across my lower lip. “Because this pretty mouth? It belongs to me tonight.”
My breath hitches. “It does.”
“There’s one more thing I want you to remember about kissing,” he says, like a professor.
“What is it?”
“A good kiss starts with me getting you so wound up, you’re…” He stops, dips his face to my ear, then whispers, “wet before I even kiss you.”
The sound I make—it’s needy.