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Oh, hello, self-sabotage. I’d say it’s been long time no see, but—considering I just kissed the woman I agreed to marry, when she’s the same woman I’ve done everything possible to keep my distance from the past two years—I can’t. Or if I did, I’d be lying. Why? Why do I keep doing this? All I had to do was make it through today. Then I’d have my space from her again. What did I do? Kissed her. And now I’ve offered a fucking cooking lesson.
Thin frames, their pattern is a swirl of coffee and cream that brings out the rich chocolate color of his hair and lashes, the tiny flecks of caramel in his green eyes. He looks absolutely decadent. Barely swallowing an embarrassing moan of want, I tug my hat tighter on my head, when what I really want to do is drag it over my face and hide the blush heating my cheeks. My entirely platonic (meaning totally off-limits) husband, went from dangerously hot to bespectacled sex on legs. Cruel, cruel universe.
His grip intensifies, still gentle, yet desperate. He sighs, the sound of weariness meeting comfort, the bittersweet relief of falling into bed after a long day. “Because I…I think I missed you. Because I hate kissing, but I love it when it’s you, and that means something. I don’t know what, and I wish I knew more, but I do know this,” he says roughly, and then he nuzzles me. I don’t know how else to describe it, this tender nudge of his temple against my cheek, the whisper of his mouth over the shell of my ear. “I want to kiss you so badly, it’s obliterated every other thought in my brain.
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