by Cass Kincaid
The corner of my mouth quirks upward. “I usually like making deals with you.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Make it through the next four hours of mingling amongst the entire population of Garrison and half the residents of Prendiville—who are here just as much for the free food as they are to congratulate us on our engagement, by the way—and I will promise you...tonight, we’ll have a little party of our own. Guest list: Just you and I.”
I grin against his lips as Cohen kisses me, sealing the promise as though it’s somehow now the gospel truth. “Just you and I, huh?” I nip tenderly at his bottom lip. “I think I’ll like this kind of party.”
“I guaran-fucking-tee you will.” His mouth leaves a trail of kisses down the side of my jaw.
“So cocky.”
“So sure.”
His kisses have turned from light and suggestive to hungry and demanding. His hands make their way to my hips, and he’s running his fingertips up and down the curve of my side. This dress isn’t low-cut or overly revealing, but the fitted bodice and above-knee length of the skirt hug my body in all the right places.
And as Cohen’s roaming hand slips under the hem of it, caressing the tender skin of my bare thigh, I realize it also gives him very easy access to exactly what he seems to be looking for.
“Cohen—” If it’s supposed to sound like a warning, or a plea to stop, I fail miserably. Instead, his name leaves my lips like a breathy confession, and the word only encourages him.
“Sounds to me like you need a little preview, Vi.”
There’s very little room in this bathroom, and Cohen knows it. It’s his house, after all. And that only makes the mischievous smirk on his face widen as he backs me up against the vanity, his hands now gripping my hips under the skirt with a renewed strength.
The sudden change in his eyes, the animalistic glint that shines within them, makes every muscle within the deepest parts of my core clench deliciously.
“Aren’t there still other people downstairs?”
“To hell with them. We’ll be quiet.”
“Co, we’ll be late.” Again, my words are said without fervor or admonishment.
One of his fingers dips under the hem of my panties, and I gasp as he lets his hand hover there, teasing me without actually touching me.
“Only if you keep stalling.”
“Cohen—” Another plea disguised as uncertainty.
His one hand stays strategically where he’s placed it between my thighs. The other, however, comes up to press one firm finger against my lips. “Shh,” he whispers. “You’re wasting precious time.”
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