He lifts his hand and gently strokes my cheekbone with his fingertips, the calloused skin feeling wonderfully masculine against my face. Butterflies appear out of nowhere and go manic inside my stomach.
“I have this rule,” Brady says, lowering his mouth toward mine, “about never kissing on the first date.”
He’s so close, his whisper leaves a hot rush of air over my mouth, causing my pulse to pound with a ferocity I have never felt before.
“You do?” I murmur back as his hand slides underneath my hair. His hand is resting against the nape of my neck, and I begin to tremble.
“I do,” he whispers. “I consider myself a gentleman. This should happen on the next date. But you make me want to break my own rule.”
Oh my, oh my, oh my!
“I want you to break it,” I say.
“Good. Because I do, too.”
And then his mouth is on mine.
Chapter Six
Brady’s lips brush against mine in the lightest of touches. A tingling sensation sweeps through me the second he kisses me. His mouth lingers there for a brief moment, and my body aches for him to part my lips and take what I’m willing to give.
His hand caresses the back of my head as his lips brush against mine once, twice, a third time in a series of innocent kisses. His stubble nicks my face. I feel the warmth of his breath, the curve of his lips, the way his body is oh-so-close to pressing into mine in an embrace.
But not quite. Just like these gentle, sweet kisses he is giving me now.
“I don’t think,” he whispers against my lips, “I’ve been enough of a rake tonight.”
Then, to my surprise, his tongue gently glides along the seam of my lips, parting them oh-so-slowly before he slips his tongue inside.
Oh, my God. This slow burn of a kiss is nothing I have ever experienced in my freaking life. Brady’s moves are torturously slow. His lips move with deliberation, his tongue barely inside me, just taking a taste of what is there for him to sample.
I feel hot. Eager. I demand the same access into his mouth, which he grants me, but his tongue is continuing to purposefully explore me sweetly. Gently. I taste coconut frosting on him and demand more of his sweetness, his taste, his sensual caressing kiss.
I slide my hand up to the side of his face, and my breath catches as I feel his five o’clock shadow underneath my palm. He’s a man—a rugged, sexy, powerful man. I stroke his face, wanting to get to know him through my fingertips. I find his cheekbones, his jawline, and then his brown waves, and I run my fingers through them, allowing the silky locks to loop around my fingers.
Brady murmurs, and his tongue plunges deeper into my mouth. My heart pounds. I want to devour this man. I want his scent on my dress, arms around me, his tongue taking and taking and taking until we are kissing so much we can’t even breathe.
His tongue caresses mine, and I feel myself go weak.
Good God, I was worried about kissing chemistry?
Brady breaks the kiss. I stare up at him, my eyes locking on those wonderful asymmetrical lips that just caressed mine right now.
He slides both his hands to my face, so he’s framing it. “Have I compromised you further, Ms. Blakely?”
I think I’m about to lose my balance. My heart is thundering. I’m burning up. And the fact that he’s throwing about Regency references in regards to kissing me?
Sexiest. Man. Ever.
“Yes, you have, Lord Brady,” I say, a dreamy sigh escaping my lips. “You have completely and thoroughly compromised me.”
A grin lights up his face. He moves a hand so it’s around my back, and he draws me into his massive body, the heat of his skin against mine.
Oh, my, this is better than any dashing hero I have ever read about.
And I have read a lot.
“Perfect,” he says, dropping another sweet kiss on my lips.
Bliss. This is pure bliss, being kissed like this.
He lifts his head back up. Or should I say his body, because I’m so short and he’s so tall, poor Brady really has to bend down to kiss me.
“Now, this is the hard part,” he says, his hand gently rubbing up and down my spine. “It’s baseball season, so my schedule is weird. I have games all this week, so I’m not out of there until after ten. I don’t want you to have to drive to see me and come back, but I’d love to see you after a game this week. I’ll come to you—that’s not a problem—if you’re comfortable with that.”
“So you’d come across the river for me?” I tease.
Brady gets a quizzical look on his handsome face. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I giggle. “It’s a native DC thing. We talk about if something is worth crossing the river for. Because you’d have to cross the river to see me.”
Brady smiles. “I see. Well, I’ve already scandalized you; it would be rude not to come see you.”
Elation fills my heart. “Yes, it would.”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
It’s all I can do not to scream my answer in pure joy.
“I am.”
“So, I can call upon you after the game?”
“Yes, I would love that.”
“Good. Me, too,” Brady leans down again and gives me a gentle kiss on the lips. “I do need to go,” he murmurs between kisses, “or I won’t leave.”
Hmm. I like that idea, actually.
But as he stands back up, I know he means it this time.
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m going to wait until you get into your car and start it,” Brady says firmly.
Pure. Gentleman.
“Thank you,” I reply. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
I head around to the driver’s side and open the door, slipping behind the wheel and starting my car. I wave at Brady, and he smiles and waves back. But he hasn’t moved from his spot, and I know he won’t do so until I pull out into traffic.
So I do, and as I’m driving down the street, I can see his figure on the sidewalk, watching me.
I brush my fingertips over my lips, remembering his slow kisses and the wordplay after he was done. My cheeks grow hot, and a jolt of electricity shoots through me from the memory.
I stay lost in that place, of kissing Brady on a cobblestone street in Old Town, sighing dreamily as I relive every touch, every kiss, and every word spoken in that moment.
It’s magic, I think in wonder. That kiss was absolutely magical.
Within minutes, I’m back at my place. I park my car, walk up to my building, and feel like waltzing up the stairs to my apartment. I know I have the stupidest smile on my face, and I don’t care. I head to my blue door with the brass 6A on it and unlock it. As soon as I’m in, I get out of my coat, kick off my heels, and retrieve my phone. To my utter delight, Brady sent me two text messages shortly after I drove off. I eagerly read the first one:
Thank you for the best night I’ve had in DC since I’ve arrived.
“Ooh!” I gasp. I quickly open the next one:
BTW . . . I think I’m good at this rogue thing. Therefore, I will need to compromise you again tomorrow night.
Forget besotted.
I’m gone for this man.
And what a wonderful feeling it is.
* * *
Daily Dose of Gratitude: Today, I’m grateful for fate. Fate, which I believe led Brady Jensen to be traded from Chicago to DC. Fate, which led me to have a job where I could get another opportunity to get to know him. I could fill half a page writing about what a unique man he is. I can tell he’s emotionally complex. He’s a deep thinker and connected to his own feelings. He’s intelligent and curious. Brady owns his interests, makes no apologies for not being conventional, and doesn’t try to be. I’m grateful he asked me out. Grateful our kissing chemistry was an A+ for both of us. And so grateful I get to see him again tonight.