“I was just kidding about you kissing me.” She sets her empty mug on the coffee table and presses her palms to her thighs. “I wouldn’t even want to kiss you if you’d been kissing that trashy groupie. Not that I’m judging but—”
“I didn’t kiss her.”
“Oh, so you just told her to get on her knees and that was that?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks and chest turn red. “Well, it’s just… if you want. It is a tradition, to kiss someone at the stroke of midnight. It’s good luck.” Her eyes go to the TV. “We only have a minute left.”
I’m tempted to spend the entire minute seeing how nervous I can get her.
But I’m not that evil. “It’s good luck.”
“It’s just a peck between friends.”
“Yeah. Right. We’re friends.” She forces a smile. “You swear you didn’t kiss her?”
I chuckle. “You don’t want some groupie’s sloppy seconds?”
“I swear on my left hand.”
“Which do you need more for the bass?”
“They’re both integral.”
“Okay. I guess that works then.” She looks from the TV—down to fifteen seconds—to me.
I grab the remote to turn the volume up. I can’t remember the last time I actually counted down to the New Year. Want to do it right.
The TV booms. “Ten, nine, eight.”
Her cheeks flush as she scoots closer. “You don’t have to.”
“You telling me you don’t want to?”
“Seven, six, five.” The crowd at Times Square goes crazy.
Piper shakes her head. “I want to.” She moves closer.
I move closer.
I move close enough to kiss her. My eyes close, my lips connect with hers. She tastes like cinnamon, salt, and sriracha.
She’s eager and hesitant at once.
I want to keep kissing her. Want my tongue dancing with hers, want her body under mine, want her groaning as I make her come.
My hand plants on her knee. It’s desperate to slide between her legs and stroke her to orgasm.
That is out of the question.
I pull back and shift to my side of the couch. Something about the kiss lingers. Not just the taste of her, but this feeling in my chest. I can’t remember the last time I kissed someone sober.
She’s bright red.
Fuck, she really is cute enough to eat.