“Did you just flex your muscles?” she asked, her voice husky. No teasing now.
 
“Maybe.” I totally had.
 
Emma’s gaze met mine. Searching. I waited for whatever she was going to say, guessing it would be a request for a cab. What I wouldn’t have given for the ability to stop time, to hold on for just a little while longer in this perfect second. Wallowing, before it ended too soon and she left me alone.
 
In an instant, I was so tired of being alone.
 
Then she muttered something that sounded like “fuck it”, rose on her toes, and crashed her lips onto mine.
 
Holy hell.
 
Of all the ways I’d imagined kissing Emma Worthington, none of them had been like this. It’d always been me initiating things, my hand in her hair, my gentle pressure coaxing her into wanting me.
 
Emma kissed me like she was trying to win a prize in seduction. Her fingers gripped my shirt, and I tasted the peach of her last cocktail as her tongue slicked over my lips.
 
This is happening. This is happening! Wake up, you dumb fuck!
 
I jerked to life and dragged her closer, sliding my hands to her lower back, the silk of her dress cool under my touch. My heart slammed into my ribs, then I drew a jagged breath and gave her my all.
 
Emma took it, boosted it, then backed me to the wall, attacking my mouth. She hooked her leg around mine, and I could’ve died from the pleasure. She ground against me, and my blood spiked, the world fading to the points of connection between us. The fast movement of our lips, devouring one another. The pressure of her fingers gliding up my neck and into my hair. I wanted her to scratch me, bite me, but I was already dangerously close to losing control.
 
We kissed one another like it was all we could do, like London had run out of oxygen and our mouths were made of air. This was so much better than fighting.