Chapter One

I, Aidan MacTaggart, have a plan. Find a wife, but not just any wife—an American one. If Lachlan, my bossy oldest brother, could accidentally meet a woman who became his bride and his soul mate, then the actions that led him to happiness ought to work for me. I am “Don Juan” MacTaggart, after all. I have more skills in attracting lasses than my workaholic brothers. So that’s how I wind up inside Dance Ardor, a dimly lit club in Chicago far from my home in the Scottish Highlands, determined to get myself an American girl.

My plan might have a few…flaws.

Aye, Lachlan met Erica here. And they are blissfully happy. But I wonder if my brother may have pulled a joke on me when he said every night was kilt night at Dance Ardor because I seem to be the only human in this place who wears the plaid. Bloody Lachlan. I know he wants revenge ever since I almost tricked his new bride into saying a slightly naughty Gaelic phrase. If he thought this would humiliate me, my brother doesn’t know me as well as he thinks.

The lasses in the club watch me. Smiling. Batting their lashes.

Although I’ve been here for only a few minutes, already I’ve learned an important lesson. American women love a man in a kilt. Must be my legs they find intriguing.

I wander around the edge of the dance floor, past tables occupied by couples and groups. Ladies cast their appreciative gazes in my direction, but none of them interest me. I want a woman with substance and heart and—

My thoughts and my feet stumble to a halt. I’ve seen her. The woman of my dreams.

A redheaded girl has just exited a set of double doors that access some deeper region of the club. Her emerald-green dress matches her eyes, and its hem stops well above her charming knees. The daringly low neckline draws my focus to the slopes of her generous breasts. As I watch, she halts to glance around, as if she’s looking for someone.

Please, don’t let her have a man waiting for her.

Every sweep of the multicolored strobe lights ignites stunning highlights in her fiery red hair and green eyes. Bod an Donais, those eyes are hypnotizing. Even from this distance, their color reminds me of jewels, and her lips… I want to catch them between my teeth and taste their flavor, then plunge deep into her mouth.

I rush toward her.

Aye, Lachlan and Rory would never do this. My brothers think things through, but I act on impulse. If they saw this woman… I would shove them out of the way to get to her. She is the most enticing lass I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I have to know her.

The beauty’s gaze travels the club, everywhere but in my direction.

Just as I reach her, she turns and bumps into me.

The wee lass yelps and throws her hands up. They land on my chest, the delicate weight of them begging me to clasp her hands in mine. I can’t stop my gaze from flying to her cleavage, to the half-exposed mounds of her breasts. Since she’s much shorter than I am, I have a perfect view down the neckline of her dress. I shouldn’t gawp at her cleavage—it’s rude, I know that—but I can’t help it.

The lovely curve of her throat snares my attention. And those perfect earlobes. I fight the urge to lunge down and take one in my mouth.

She stares at my chest, the bit of it visible where the top buttons of my shirt are undone.

I can’t resist the urge any longer. I settle my hands over hers on my chest. Her skin is soft as silk and warm too, and my hands almost completely cover hers.

“Well now,” I say, “I’ve been looking for a bonnie lass, but I didn’t expect to literally run into one.”

She stumbles backward a step, blinking rapidly, like she’s dazed. Her gaze sweeps over me, from my leather boots up my legs and over my hips to my arms, and finally to my face. She angles her head back and blinks again, slowly this time, as our eyes meet.

Desire simmers inside me, heating up more every second. I want her—in my bed, in my life, and maybe as my wife. Only one way to know if she is the woman I’ve been looking for.

A lock of her flame-red hair has fallen over her eyes.

I brush the lock away from her face. “Your dress brings out the green of your eyes. But this lighting can’t do justice to your beautiful red hair.”

She sweeps her appreciative gaze over me again, and her tongue darts out to moisten her lower lip. With a tiny shake of her head, she seems to rouse herself from a fantasy—of me, I hope—and a faint blush dapples her cheeks.

Bonnie, adorable lass.

I tilt my head to study her face. “You’re the one I’ve been looking for, I think.”

My future wife smooths out her dress, clears her throat, and lifts her chin. Whether it’s defiance or a simple need to look up to meet my gaze, I don’t care. She’s so luscious and cute that I want to drag her into my arms just to feel her soft, warm body against me.

“Are you looking for the party?” she asks.

Party? No, I hadn’t been looking for one. If this lass wants to take me to a party, though, I’ll go along. Anything to spend more time in her presence. I let my lips slide into my best wicked smirk, the one the ladies always appreciate. “Aye.”

One word is all I can speak. Her eyes, aimed straight at mine, glimmer with an emerald fire that transfixes me.

“You’re not a firefighter,” she says.

Is she barmy or just fixated on firemen? Makes no difference to me, because this lass entrances me like no other woman I’ve ever seen. “I didn’t realize American women are so specific about what they want.”

“As long as you look good without your clothes, you’ll do.”

No clothes? What sort of party has she come from? I’d prefer a private session involving nudity, but I can be flexible.

“You’re direct, aren’t you?” I say. “Yes, I’ve been told I look quite good naked.”

“Naked?” Her brows lift, and she glances down at my kilt. “Please tell me you’re wearing a G-string under that thing. That’s the protocol, isn’t it?”

“A G-string protocol?” I can’t keep from laughing as I shake my head, confused and enchanted at the same time. “You’re adorable, but I’m beginning to think you’re off your head.”

“Are you calling me crazy?” Before I can respond, she raises a hand to silence me. “Never mind. Come with me.”

The bonnie wee bampot turns away, crooking a finger to beckon me to follow.

How can I refuse her? This girl is a mystery, a sexy one, and I plan on examining every clue she offers me. All night. Naked. In a back room of this club if necessary. I need to have her, one way or another.

“Ah, lass,” I purr, “I’ll follow ye anywhere, even if ye are a bampot.”

“Whatever, just hurry up.”

She leads me toward the double doors. I drink in the view of her round little erse shimmying with every swing of her full hips. Dear God, but she has curves in all the right places. The sort of curves that make a man want to explore every one of them with his hands, his mouth, and aye, his cock sunk into her sweet flesh.

The woman I intend to marry glances over her shoulder at me.

I hit her with my signature smile, a slow and sensual expression that leaves no doubts about my desire for her. “After the party, may I buy you a drink?”

“I don’t drink. Not morally opposed or anything, but I’ve never tasted an alcoholic beverage I liked.”

“Water is a drink, you know.” I would offer her a glass of mud-puddle water if it keeps her close by, but instead, I peer down the hallway past her. “Where are we headed?”

“The party, of course.” She scrunches her eyebrows in the sweetest way, then waves for me to pick up speed as she does the same. “Come on, they’re waiting.”

“They?” Although she had mentioned a party, I still have no bloody idea what I’m walking into, but I’d meant it when I said I’ll follow her anywhere. Especially if I get to admire that beautiful erse along the way.

“It’s a party,” she says, sounding a bit peeved. “Just come along, will you?”

“Aye.” As we push through the swinging doors, I move up alongside her. Gazing down at her smooth shoulder, I can’t resist gliding a hand up her arm. The silken feel of her skin makes the desire flickering inside me flare into a bonfire. “I’m yours to command.”

“Um…” She stumbles to a halt, sweeping her gaze over me. Her breathing has grown heavier, and she loosely bites her lower lip. Clearing her throat, she shakes my hand off. “Where were you, anyway? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

She’d been looking for me? Well, I’ve been searching for a woman like her all my adult life. Does she feel the same attraction I do?

Please, merciful heaven, make it true.

“Have ye, then?” I ask.

“Yes.” She seizes my arm, hesitating for the briefest moment. Her eyes flare wide like she’s surprised, or maybe aroused, by my biceps. Then she tugs my arm. “Get a move on.”

“Lead on, lass. Lead on.”

She hauls me straight to a room inside which women’s voices laugh and shout. My future wife releases my arm and hesitates with her hand on the knob. “I hope they’re not too disappointed you aren’t a firefighter.”

“Is it really that important to every American woman?” Lachlan hadn’t mentioned this trait of American lasses. Had Erica been so specific? Do women in this country make lists of the exact qualities they want in a man, including desirable professions?

Bloody hell, I hope not. That sort of behavior reminds me of Rory, my older brother who makes rules for every ruddy thing.

“Never mind,” she says, and flings the door open, gesturing for me to go inside.

Women’s voices erupt in wild whoops.

Something about their shouts makes me freeze. They sound…ravenous.

Mhac na galla. What sort of orgy is this lassie dragging me into?

“He’s here!” someone hollers, and louder whoops erupt.

I stagger backward half a step.

The siren who’d lured me here lays a hand on my back and pushes. I stumble across the threshold.

Women scream and whoop and whistle.

Holy heaven. My eyes fly so wide I feel a breeze drying them out. Across the room, a blindfolded woman holds a paper shaped like a penis—and painted like one too—while she flounders around, moving in the direction of a board that holds a cartoon-like image of a man without a dick. The woman stabs her paper cock onto the image, pinning the appendage to the man’s groin.

I wince. The lad might be made of paper, but I sympathize with what this mob of lunatic women has done to him.

The woman whips off her blindfold, pumps her fists in the air, and shouts, “Woo! Time to get the party started!”

A mob of screaming women barrels toward me.

“Take it off, baby,” one says. “Show us what you got.”

I flail backward, smacking into the redhead behind me.

“Shit!” she yells, as she tumbles to the floor.

Faced with a throng of crazed women, I shed all my masculine pride and hurry backward out of the room. Hercules himself would’ve fled from this onslaught. I trip over the redhead’s legs and hop sideways to avoid falling onto her. My weight would crush the little siren. I fling out a hand to halt my own fall, my palm slapping on the wall.

Inside the room, someone shrieks. A tiny woman rushes to the doorway, eyes wide, face blanched, her attention on the redhead. “Calli, are you okay? What happened?”

The woman of my dreams pushes up onto her elbows and blows hair out of her face. “The exotic dancer trampled me.”

Exotic dancer? I feel my brows pinch together, tightening my forehead.

The tiny lass offers a hand to the redhead—Calli, the other one had called her—and helps lever her off the floor. When my dream girl’s foot contacts the linoleum, she winces and hisses, grabbing the doorjamb for support.

She frowns at me. “What’s wrong with you? A stripper ought to be used to being pawed by salivating women.”

The other girl aims a chastising look at me and slips an arm around Calli’s waist. “Yeah. What’s your damage, Kilt Boy?”

With my palm still flat on the wall, I gawp at these women. I might be horribly confused, but I know one thing for certain. I hurt Calli, and though it had been an accident, I worry I’ve ruined my chances with her.

“I’m getting a refund,” the tiny one says. “I don’t want a nutso stripper, even if he is wicked hot.”

“Refund for what?” I ask, glancing from one bampot to the other. “Did you call me—You women are cracked. Ahmno a stripper.”

Chapter Two

The tiny lass huffs. “Of course you’re a stripper. We paid for you.”

“Paid?” I move away from the wall, straightening to my full height. “I donnae take my clothes off for money.”

“Who else but a stripper would wear a kilt?”

I clench my jaw. “A man from Scotland would.”

Calli hobbles between the angry elf and me, holding up a hand to each of us. “Let’s all calm down. This was obviously a huge misunderstanding, and that’s my fault.”

The elf points at Calli’s ankle. “He broke your leg.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. I twisted my ankle, that’s all.”

I glance down at her ankle and grimace. How could I have hurt a woman? Even if it was an accident, I feel awful about it. So I rub the back of my neck, rolling my eyes up to look at Calli. “I’m sorry. Didnae mean to hurt you.”

“She needs medical attention,” the elf pronounces. “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“No,” Calli says. “A twisted ankle is not an emergency. I need to sit down, that’s all.”

The tiny lass eyes Calli warily. “You sure?”

“It was an accident, and I will be fine.” Calli raises a hand, palm out. “I swear it.”

The doors to the club proper swing open, and a man in a firefighter outfit saunters down the hallway toward us. He holds a boom box on one shoulder. Pouting like a male model, he nods at Calli. “Hey babe, where’s the bachelorette party?”

She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “In there.”

The real stripper pushes past her. She tries to sidle out of the way, but her ankle gives out, and she staggers into me. I catch her by the shoulders, steadying her against my body with both hands. She turns her gaze up to mine.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

She has the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen.

Whoops and catcalls erupt inside the party room once again. Music starts up too, full of pounding bass and electric guitars.

I lean closer to Calli to be heard above the din. “You need to rest your ankle. Let me help you find a place to sit.”

The angry elf lingers nearby, but her focus is on the festivities inside the room. She bites her lip, casting Calli a sideways glance.

Calli waves me away. “Go on, I’ll be fine. I appreciate your concern, but you must want to be out there. Don’t let me disrupt your plans.” To the elf, she says, “You go on too, get to your party. I’ll be right there.”

The other lass squints at me, probably because I still have my hands on Calli’s upper arms. “I can’t leave you alone with a stranger.”

“I’m not a stranger,” I say. Then I offer my hand to Calli. “Aidan MacTaggart. There, now you know me.”

The woman I want to marry settles her hand in my palm. I love the feel of her delicate, warm hand in mine.

My future wife coughs and says, “I’m Calli. Nice to meet you.”

“Enchanted to meet you.” I lift her hand to kiss it. “But I feel responsible for your injury. Please let me take care of you.”

“No need. I can get my own butt into a chair.”

The corners of my mouth twitch, almost forming a smile, because she is the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. “I’m sure you can, but a gentleman offers aid to a lady in distress.”

“That’s sweet, but—”

“I’ll see you to a chair and leave you be.” I place a hand on her back and spread the other arm wide, indicating the doorway to the party room. “After you.”

Kicking off her shoes, Calli starts to reach down for them, but I snatch them up and offer her my arm. She hooks her arm around mine, curling her hand around my forearm as she lets me guide her toward the doorway. Thankfully, her limping improves with each step.

At the threshold, she pulls away from me. “Thank you, but my ankle is feeling much better. You can go back out there and find a hot chick in a slinky dress to occupy your time.”

My gaze travels the length of her succulent body, down to her toes, and back up to her face. “Donnae need to go anywhere to find that. You are exceptionally hot, and your dress is slinky enough to capture any man’s interest.”

Is she blushing? I like that. The dusting of pink on her cheeks is becoming.

“Let me have a look at your ankle,” I say, because I’m desperate to keep her near me, “to make sure I haven’t wounded you grievously.”

“I’m fine, really,” she says. Calli studies me for a moment, then seems to realize the futility of trying to make me go away. She shuffles across the threshold. “See? I can walk all by my itty-bitty self.”

“You aren’t itty-bitty.” I can’t resist raking my gaze over her from head to toe one more time, paying special attention to her breasts and lips before I look into her eyes again. “You’re a full-grown woman with soft, inviting curves in all the right places.”

“Thank you for helping me. And I’m really sorry I thought you were a stripper.”

I shrug. “I suppose it’s a compliment. My offer to buy you a drink after the party is still open, even if you want to sip apple juice.”

“I’ll probably be too tired later, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Come find me if you change your mind.” I take her hand and kiss it one last time. “Till we meet again, Calli.”

Though I don’t want to leave her, I realize I have no choice. She has a party to attend, one that involves paper penises and a stripper. What else can I do? I stride down the hallway and out the swinging doors.

Somehow, I need to convince that lass to date me.

*****

I stand at the bar, sipping a glass of whisky, though it’s the American variety instead of the Scottish sort. For the past fifteen minutes, I’ve waited here, hoping Calli will find me. Maybe I had come to this club to find a wife, or at least a girlfriend, but I don’t want to do that anymore. Not unless the woman I marry or date is Calli. I don’t even know her surname, but I want her like I’ve never wanted any other lass.

Several women have approached me, and although they were bonnie, I couldn’t muster any desire for them.

My mobile chimes, telling me I have a new text. When I check, I see it’s Lachlan the lying ersehole.

How goes it? he wants to know.

Bloody brilliant. I have a fiancée already.

Lying cacan.

He’s calling me a wee shit? And a liar? I type, Lachie “Every Night is Kilt Night” MacTaggart shouldn’t criticize.

Don’t get in too much trouble.

Why do my brothers insist on treating me like a bairn? They’ve both got cabers up their erses. So I tell Lachlan, Go shag your wife. He replies with an emoji of a devil face, though I have no ruddy idea what that means. Stuffing the mobile in my pocket, I scan the crowd inside this club and frown at my rubbish luck. The only woman I want just walked away from me. None of the scantily dressed lasses here make me want to do anything other than go home.

Aye, running home with my tail between my legs would make Lachie and Rory smile with smug satisfaction. Aidan screws up again.

Still frowning, I survey the club’s patrons again—and I see Calli.

When our gazes intersect, I can’t stop my mouth from curving into a grin. She smiles at me too, so brightly that I swear I light up from the inside out. Why does she affect me this way? I don’t know, and I don’t care. Examining every minute detail of everything I do is not my style. So I saunter toward Calli, wondering how long it might take for me to convince her to marry me. I should probably start with getting to know her, but I’ve never liked waiting for anything.

Slow down, ye eejit. Donnae scare her away.

Am I an idiot? Possibly. Then again, maybe I’m just very focused on my goal.

I stop inches away from Calli and slant my head down toward hers. “This is a lovely surprise. Thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

“Here I am.”

“Aye.” Settling my hands on her upper arms, I slide them down to her elbows. “I’d love to spend more time with you.”

“I’d like that too.”

“What about a private booth?” I point down the short hallway that leads to curtained booths. “I promise to take no liberties without your express consent. Will you come with me?”

She gazes up at me with an almost dreamy expression, her lips parted slightly. Then she nods.

I take her hand, guiding her down the hallway toward a booth that has its curtains open, revealing no one inside. I’d noticed this hallway while I was waiting and hoping Calli would find me again, and I’d asked the bartender about the booths. Now, I usher the bonnie American into the empty space, pulling the purple curtains shut behind us.

Calli stares at the semicircular table and the plum-colored velvet that upholsters the curved sofa behind it. The tabletop has a plum surface too, with a thick, flickering candle at its center. Wax gathers within the candle’s concave top, forming a lava-like pool at its center and dribbling down the sides.

I place a hand on the small of her back. “Have a seat.”

Calli is staring at the ledge that backs the sofa, where I notice a small bowl, deep purple in color and filled with condom packets. This is a true hedonist’s heaven, isn’t it? I love women, but I am not that sort.

My future wife seems shocked by that bowl and its contents.

I wince. “Didn’t know about those. I swear, I didn’t.”

“I believe you. First time at Dance Ardor?”

“Yes. Have you been before?”

“No. Came for my cousin’s bachelorette party.”

Lowering onto the sofa, Calli shimmies sideways until she’s behind the table with the bowl of condoms behind her.

Maybe we could make use of that bowl…

No, that would be pushing her. I need to take it slow.

I slide in beside her, draping an arm across the sofa’s back behind her shoulders. She smells wonderful, like all sorts of womanly things I can’t describe. Sitting beside her like this, I have a perfect view of her bonnie tits, thanks to the plunging neckline of her frock.

Smoothing out her dress, she clears her throat. “Sorry I shoved you into that room with all those ravening bridesmaids. They’re actually nice ladies, but they’ve had a little too much champagne tonight.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. Told you I don’t drink.”

“Thought maybe you were desperate enough to try it after being in a room with those bampots. Are you the one chosen to drive everyone home?”

“I’m not the designated driver.” She squirms a little. “We came in a van with a professional driver.”

“Hope he’s not in this club getting jaked.” When I realize she seems confused, I explain, “Getting drunk.”

“No, she is waiting in the van watching TV on her phone.”

“Ah.” I glance down at her feet. “How’s the ankle?”

“Okay. Hurts a little when I walk, especially in these heels.”

“May I have a look? I’m no doctor, but I’ve had my share of injuries.” And been the cause of someone else’s pain. But I’m in America to forget all that rubbish.

Calli gnaws on her lip. “It’s not necessary. Really.”

“Humor me?” I say. “I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

Can’t help it. I give her my wickedest grin. Since her lips tick upward a wee bit, I think she likes my devilish side.

The lass leans back against the plush cushioning and raises her foot.

I clasp it in both hands, bringing her leg up and onto my lap with everything from her knee down in contact with my body. I slip her shoe off and set it on the table, then skate my hand over the sole of her foot and down to her delicate toes that have curled slightly as if she loves my touch. The sensation of her skin on mine arouses me even more, and a brilliant idea occurs to me. Though I’d offered to examine her injured ankle, I don’t want to give up the feel of her skin just yet, and maybe I can use my examination as an excuse to keep touching her. I rub the ball of her foot with leisurely strokes, letting my fingers roam over her skin while I knead her flesh and revel in the pleasure of touching her and seeing the desire on her face.

“It’s my ankle,” she says, “not my toes.”

Does she think I’ve forgotten? No chance I’d ever forget even one tiny thing about her. I smirk. “Aye, but I thought to check your whole foot to be sure. All right?”

“Okay.”

Keeping my hand on her sole, rubbing with measured strokes, I place my other palm on her heel and glide it up to her ankle, shamelessly fondling her flesh, which I mean to do until she tells me to stop. Doesnae seem likely she will. Her cheeks have acquired a faint blush, and she rubs her lips together over and over as her breath hitches and her body tenses.

“Oh…” she says, then seems to lose her train of thought while I explore every contour of her ankle and foot.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that her expression might not signal mounting desire, but instead, indicate pain. I freeze with my hands on her skin. “Is this uncomfortable?”

“No.”

Ah, so it is desire after all. Calli wouldn’t lie. Maybe I’ve known her for less than an hour, but I can tell she’s an honest lass.

“I’ve been looking for a woman like you,” I say, not even trying to keep my lust from coloring my voice. “A woman with substance and heart and sensuality.”

“You don’t know me. Maybe I’m obsessed with my looks and never pick up a book, except to prop open my bedroom door for the long line of men waiting for their turn.”

I chuckle while I return to massaging the sole of her foot. “You aren’t like that. I can tell.”

“Exactly how can you identify my character traits after a few minutes in my presence?”

“The way you talk is one clue.” I slide my hand from her sole to the top of her foot, gliding my fingers up her skin from her toes to her ankle and down again while, with my other hand, I keep massaging her ankle with lazy strokes. “The way you carry yourself is another clue. You’re a real woman, not a silly girl.”

And with every minute that ticks by while I’m in her presence, I become even more convinced that she’s the one for me.

I release her foot, moving it off my lap, and notice out of the corner of my eye that she’s slipping her foot back into her high-heeled shoe. I edge closer until my bare knees brush against hers. Bod an Donais, I love to feel her skin against mine. Her foot has fallen back to the floor, and my kilt grazes her thigh. I brace one hand on the sofa behind her head, then settle the other on her thigh. Our faces hover inches apart, and I swear I can taste her breaths as they tease my skin.

Leaning in close, I whisper into her ear. “I want to kiss you.”

She stops blinking. Stops breathing too, I think. Our gazes are bound by an invisible thread, a connection I’ve felt since the moment I first saw her. She might think I’m off my head if I tell her that, so I’ll keep it to myself for now. The last thing I want to do is scare her away. I drag my tongue across my lower lip while I imagine it’s her skin I’m tasting, and my eyes drift half-closed. What will she taste like? I burn to know the answer—right now.

I slant my head closer, my gaze locked on her mouth.

Though I desperately need to kiss her, I pause with my lips millimeters from hers and let myself enjoy the sensation of her breaths whispering over my skin. I roll my gaze up to meet hers, certain mine is rife with a hunger only she can satisfy. Maybe I love to flirt with the lasses, and kiss the lasses, but I’ve never needed to taste a woman as much as I need to taste Calli.

I cradle her nape with my palm and tilt her head back a touch, enough to bring her mouth within kissing distance of mine and expose the tender flesh of her throat. I press my lips to hers, keeping the touch soft and sweet, brushing my mouth back and forth.

Calli’s lips part on a delicate gasp.

I withdraw a few inches. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

That’s all I need to hear. I claim her mouth in a ravenous crush of lips against lips, loving the way she dissolves into me with a soft wee whimper. I clasp her nape more firmly as I flick my tongue out to explore the seam of her lips. She tastes even better than I’d imagined, though I could never describe her flavor. Donnae need to. Experiencing her is enough for me, and words are unnecessary.

She grasps my shirt, her fingers crooking into the fabric, and opens her mouth to me like she’s begging for a deeper kiss.

Well, I never turn down an invitation from a sexy lass.

At the instant I thrust my tongue into her mouth, I lash my free arm around her waist to bind her supple, sensual body to mine. She swings one leg over me to straddle my lap and clings to my shirt, her breasts mounded against me while she surrenders to the demands of my tongue and lips, her body plastered to my chest. She coils her tongue around mine. Christ, I love her passion. And I love this kiss. I want it to go on forever, and longer even, until after the universe collapses in on itself and a new one explodes into existence.

When did I become a poet? It’s barmy rubbish.

Calli moans as I slide my hand down from her nape and trace a path along the bare skin of her back, following the curvature of her spine until I feel the edge of her dress, just above her erse. She arches into me while we ravage each other’s mouths with increasingly frantic lashes of our tongues.

I groan low in my throat.

She rips her mouth away from mine and scrambles off my lap, banging her hip on the table as she flounders to get out of the booth. Tripping over her own feet, she grabs for the purple curtain to stay her fall.

I thrust an arm out, intending to catch her.

She steadies herself before I get the chance and shrugs away from my outstretched hand. I feel air rushing into my mouth, though I hadn’t realized I’d opened my mouth. Well, I am gawping at her slack-jawed, baffled by her abrupt exit.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t do this.”

Before I can speak a single syllable, she bolts out of the booth.