“Are you upset I crashed your friend-date?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.
“Would it make a difference?”
“No.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe. This is new territory for me, Camila.”
“The stalking thing?” I asked, smiling at his flustered look.
“That and . . .” he shook his head, moving close to me again, pressing me flat against the wall behind me, “this.”
His free hand traveled down my spine, stopping on my ass, which he grabbed a handful of this time. My lips parted as I gasped, watching the way his eyes darkened. Our lips met at the same time, our tongues crashing in each other’s mouths in a wild escapade. I wrapped my arms around his neck, willing myself closer to him. My pelvis rocking against his very pronounced erection, my bare chest covered by only the thin layer of fabric brushing against the buttons of his hard muscled chest.
“You’re killing me,” he whispered against my lips, taking hold of both sides of my face. “You’re fucking killing me and you don’t even know it.”
The fire inside me spread through me, roaring through my veins with each touch, each drop of his lips on a different part of me, my shoulders, my neck, my collarbone. My stomach ached with the absolute need I felt for him.
“I don’t want to want you this much,” I whispered when our lips broke apart again.
His eyes searched mine, his gaze softening. “But you do.”
“But I do.”
“And you can’t will the feeling away.”
I shook my head, looking at him as if he was going to give me some kind of antidote for this. Whatever this was.
“Neither can I,” he said, placing his forehead against mine. “Neither can I.”
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