From the moment my mouth meets Sly’s, I know I’m fucked. Not only does he have the power to destroy me, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to let him.

    It makes no sense to be here again after everything I’ve done to survive over thest five years.

    But the truth is, this moment isn’t “again.” I’ve never been here before, not like this. Not even with Jarrod, who I deeply, truly loved.

    Because when Sly leans into me, there is no before. And there is no after. There is only this single, wild moment and the tornado it unleashes between us.

    For half a breath, his body is stiff against my own, his lips as rigid and unyielding as the rest of him. Mine, too, for that matter. Did I really just do this? But as soon as his mouth starts to move against mine, everything changes.

    And by everything, I do mean everything.

    The rigidness drains out of him like it never was as he wraps an arm around me, sters one big hand to the small of my back, and pulls me straight into the long, lean, muscled heat of his body.

    I gasp at the contact, every nerve ending lighting up at the exact same time.

    Sly takes instant advantage, his free hand moving to cup my jaw even as his tongue slides gently along the seam between my parted lips.

    A tiny voice in my head begs me to stop, to remember the cameras, the consequences. But the rest of me? The rest of me only knows how to feel.

    All it cares about is the roughness of his calloused fingers against my jaw.

    The security of his powerful body against my own. The possessiveness of that firm hand on my back.

    And the pleasure… Oh my God, the pleasure. It all feels so good, so right.

    As does the delicious, overwhelming, all-epassing taste of his mouth. Like lime and coconut and the darkest, most exotic cinnamon.

    Without me making a conscious decision to do it, my hands slide up his chest to tangle in his T-shirt and pull him closer. My body melds to his, my curves cushioning his hard, muscr nes.

    I open my mouth just a little bit wider for him. Only him.

    As I do, I can feel Sly’s quick smile against my own. And then he’s nipping at my lower lip, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to send shivers running down my spine.

    It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to moan. Or whimper. But I have just enough awareness left not to totally humiliate myself in front of all these people. In front of all these cameras.

    The thought of them finally invades the haze of pleasure that Sly has cocooned me in, and I think about pulling back. But his hand on my back is tooforting, his lips too soft as he nips at me again—my upper lip this time—and holds the kiss there, drawing out the heat, the intensity between us just a little bit longer.

    In that moment, that little pocket of existence between time and space and photographers and reality, I realize I want more.

    I want everything.

    “Hold that pose!” someone yells from the throng of paparazzi, dragging the both of us back down to earth.

    Sly stiffens like a hot poker just went somewhere very unpleasant, and he whispers “Fuck” against my lips. And then, so reluctantly that every second is an agony of unfulfilled everything, he pulls away.

    I do whimper then, a tiny sound of protest, and he stops just long enough to caress my cheek with his fingers and murmur, “I’ve got you, corazón.”

    He shifts to face the crowd even as he keeps my front pressed to his side with a powerful arm around my waist. It’s like he knows that for once, I can’t face them. My poker face has abandoned me, as has my brazen, “I’m the big bad wolf” act, and all I can do is stand there and let Sly shelter me as he says, “I think that should answer most of your questions. Now excuse us. We’re going to head inside because…I’m suddenly ravenous.”

    That draws my startled eyes up to his, but in that moment he’s too busy staring down a coterie of shocked reporters to meet my gaze. That doesn’t stop him from tightening his arm around me and stroking my waist in a way that sends electricity coursing through my body.

    And then, as paparazzi, reporters, and fans alike regain their voices as one, he spins us around and walks us straight past a very amused-looking Marco and through the open front door of the Willow.