I check the time on my phone then open the picture she sent me of her dress fabric, and then hightail it out of my house, googling the nearest stores as I go.

Bounding down the front steps, I reach the limo door just as the driver steps out.

“Good evening, Mr. Cash.”

“Hey, Jasper,” I say. “Can you take me to that store on Fillmore that sells those things women wear around their shoulders?”

“Wraps, sir?”

I snap my fingers. “Yep. Those.”

He doesn’t even blink—probably not even close to the strangest request he’s gotten. “Right away.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I slide into the back of the limo. When I click on the text from my cousin, attached is a photo of a cute blonde with a heart-shaped face.

Rachel: How about Caitlin? She teaches preschool! And fosters kittens! She’s soooooo good.

Crosby: Rach, I love you, but I’m not interested. Plus, I’m taking my old friend Nadia to the Sports Network Awards tonight.

Rachel: OMG!

Crosby: It’s nothing. I swear it’s nothing.

Rachel: Squee! I want a report!

Crosby: I will give you no such thing. But hey, maybe I should find a guy for you. Payback, cousin!

Rachel: You say that like it’s a bad thing, you setting me up with someone. I’m pretty sure you know some fabulous men. Ideally, I’d like a man who loves his job, likes to unwind with something quirky and creative, and would be passionately, madly devoted to me, talking and trying to make the best of a life together.

Crosby: I’m on it.

I tuck the phone into my pocket when we reach the store I passed the other week, the one with scarves and shit in the window.

“Be right back,” I tell Jasper, and race in. I show the dress fabric to a sales associate, and three minutes later, I walk out with a gift for my . . . old friend Nadia.

Hardly seems like the way to describe her though.

I’m back in the limo when Rachel replies with another message.

Rachel: But back to you and Nadia. All I will say is I’m so excited for you, but please be careful. You let people in too soon.

Crosby: Funny. Grant said that too the other day. I promise I’ll be careful.

But at Nadia’s door a few minutes later, I don’t know that I feel careful.

Hungry—that’s what I feel when she opens the door.

A dress the color of a rich merlot hugs her curves and shows off her fantastic breasts, which are dusted with some sort of shimmery powder. All that glimmering skin makes me want to haul her against me, bury my face in the valley of her breasts, and kiss her every-fucking-where, starting with those lips, all sensual, pink, and glossy.

Her chestnut hair falls loose over her shoulders in thick waves I want to run my hands through. And her face. Those cheekbones. That mouth. Those big brown eyes.

My brain kicks into an overdrive of desire. My breath catches, and lust hums in my bones.

“Nadia Harlowe,” I say, “there is nothing accidental about how sexy you look, or how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Her lips part, her tongue flicking across her bottom lip, and she shudders. “Kiss me,” she whispers.

I set the gift bag on the entryway table.

This time, I’m careful about one thing only. Don’t mess up her hair.

I step inside, kick the door closed, and cup her cheeks. I haul her close. With a groan already rumbling up my throat, I cover her lips with mine and kiss her so goddamn deliberately.

The opposite of our first kiss.

A kiss stoked from fire.

One forged from the flames of lust licking between us, fanned by nights of flirty, dirty texts.

Or maybe, just maybe, from years of latent feelings.

Whatever it is, I need to touch her, consume her, taste those lips crushed against mine. Her tropical island scent dances in my head, making me dizzy, buzzed on her.

I kiss her like I can’t get enough of her. Like we’re both pouring years of longing into this moment. Like our kiss is fueled by bone-deep need to surrender to this desire.

To this kiss.

To this connection.

I run my thumb along her jaw as I kiss her rougher, more passionately, my tongue exploring her mouth, my lips brushing over hers, our breaths mingling.

She sighs and murmurs, kissing me back just as fiercely, her hands traveling up my chest, spreading over my pecs like she wants to own my body.

Hell yes.

Have at it.

I drop one hand from her face, sliding it down over the curve of her breast. She trembles as my fingers roam around her and down her spine till my palm curls over her ass, and I jerk her against me so she can feel the outline of my cock.

“Oh!” she gasps.

It’s so goddamn sexy, that one syllable and the way she says it, tinged with desperation.

I break the kiss, panting hard.

“I think I need a moment,” I say, echoing her line from the other night.

“I think I need a moment too,” she says.

We both grin like we share a secret, and we do—the truth of how we feel for each other.

But there’s no time to explore these feelings now.

She glances at her watch and shoots me a rueful smile. “I think we better go. I do have to present an award,” she says, her breath still uneven, laced with desire.

“Me too.” Gently, I run my fingers along a soft curl of her hair. “But know this—I’d love nothing more than to play hooky, unzip your dress, strip you down to nothing, and kiss every inch of your naked body.” I meet her gaze again, locking eyes with her so she can see in mine how much I want her. Reaching for her wrist, I run my thumb over it and feel her shudder under my touch. “I’d love nothing more than to kiss you, touch you, fuck you.”

She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I want that too,” she whispers, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next few hours.

“We better go,” I growl. “Or I’m going to take you right now.”

“Can’t have that,” she says, sexy and teasing.

Somehow we separate for real this time.

No touching.

She grabs her purse, lifting a brow as she checks its contents. “I don’t need my Leatherman, but I do need these two necessities.” She takes out a tissue to wipe away her smeared gloss, then leans into me and dabs my lips too, a delighted grin on her gorgeous face. “There. Now you don’t quite look like you were kissed six ways to Sunday.”

“But I was. I definitely was.”

She tosses the tissue into the trash can, snags her lipstick, and reapplies it.

I raise a hand. “Um, back up a sec though. Leatherman?”

“Every woman should carry one. How else would I remove a porcupine quill if I’m out hiking?”

“There you go.”

She snags her keys and drops them into her purse. “Let me grab a wrap.”

I grin. “Let me.”

She shoots me a curious look as I reach behind her for the small shopping bag.