The kiss wasn't a rehearsal. It wasn't a performance for the paparazzi or a calculated move to satisfy a contract. It was an explosion.
Adrian's mouth crashed against mine with a starving desperation that stole the very air from my lungs.
It was almost like he tried to consume me. His tongue pushed past my lips, seeking mine with a frantic hunger, and instead of pulling away, I melted.
My hands, stupid bloody cursed hands, flew up to cup his face, my fingers digging into his jawline as if to anchor myself to the earth.
He let out a growl against my lips before his hands slid from my face to my waist, hoisting me up effortlessly.
I wrapped my legs around his hips, my silk dress riding up to my hips, but I didn't care. I couldn't care. The world was just the taste of scotch on his breath and the heat of his skin against mine.
