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GEORGIA

My infuriating husband grips my hair, tilts my head back, and kisses me hard. I forget where I am, who I’m with, and why we’re here.

With a low, pleased groan, he coaxes my lips apart and strokes against my tongue. Some instinct deep within me has me stroking his right back, hands fisting the front of his shirt, leaning into his firm chest, arching against him like a cat in heat.

It’s a good kiss . No, it’s a great kiss.

I don’t even like kissing. It’s the thing I do to get to sex, which is usually disappointing, anyway, but with my husband’s stubble lightly scraping my skin, his clean scent in my nose, and the hot, searching slide of his tongue against mine, my blood turns molten.

I’m on fire. His mouth on mine is too good, too mind-bending and demanding and confident, like he knows exactly what he wants. Like I’m just strung along for the ride.

Did he always smell this incredible?

Where did he learn to kiss like this?

Why is his hair so soft and thick?

Why is him gripping my hair like that so hot?

I didn’t know this kind of kissing was a thing, like I can’t stop and I never want to.

Like my entire existence depends on this kiss going forever.

Shivers run up and down my spine, and when he sucks my tongue, my brain short-circuits.

He groans, my head spins, and I don’t know what the fuck is happening.

Every time I tug the thick strands of his hair, he lets out another low, hungry noise. The third time I do it, he pulls me to him, hard body flush against mine.

Someone nearby moans. It isn’t me. It can’t be me, because I’m busy thinking about how I hate him. I nip his bottom lip and a shudder runs through him.

I like kissing. I like it a lot. I could do this for hours. I hate that it’s with Volkov, though, and I really hate that he’s so good at it.

He makes a low noise in his throat like he’s just as annoyed as I am before the kiss deepens. Electricity spirals through me. Low in my abdomen, pressure builds as he pulls me closer to him, one big arm wrapping around my shoulders and the other still firmly rooted in my hair.

If this is how he kisses when he doesn’t like someone, what’s it like when he does ?

Hoots and hollers rise up around us, hauling me back to earth. In a sharp rush of realization, I pull back. Right. He’s doing this to prove a point, to get back at me, one-up me.

He glowers down at me, eyes glazed and pupils expanding wide, chest rising and falling fast. My horrible husband still hates me. I clear my throat and look away, gathering my thoughts and fighting the urge to fan my overheated face.

The team watches with big, proud grins. Luca gives us a big smile and a thumbs-up. A twinge of embarrassment hits me, because I’m supposed to be professional in front of them.

I don’t know why I lost my head like that.

I want to say something cool and witty, because I’m unaffected and unrattled.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, instead .

He holds my gaze before his drops to my mouth. His hands flex like he’s holding himself back.

“You’re supposed to be a bad kisser.” I press my swollen lips together, and his eyes flash, watching the motion.

He leans in, an inch from my ear, and I can smell him again—body wash or detergent, something clean and crisp. “Maybe you don’t know everything about me.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Maybe I don’t.