Future Perfect (26 page)

Or maybe it was just the glow from the dim streetlight, making her look like youthful beauty and desire personified.

“Why do men have a problem saying
the pill
?” she asked.

Shane laughed. “It’s not the words,” he told her. “It’s the concept. See, what if I’d misunderstood and—”

“You didn’t. And FYI, this is Massachusetts. It’s still legal here. No need to back-alley it.”

“Well, good. But … we still need … some.”

She smiled, and Jesus, she was beautiful. “Don’t worry, I got it handled.” Her gaze became a once over that was nearly palpable, lingering for a moment on
the unmistakable bulge beneath the button-fly of his jeans. She looked back into his eyes. “Or I will, soon enough.”

No doubt about it, his luck had changed.

“Please promise that you’re not luring me back to your apartment with the intention of locking me in chains and keeping me as your love slave,” he said. “Or—wait. Maybe what I really want is for you to promise that you
are
.”

She laughed at that. “You’re not my type for long-term imprisonment,” she told him. But then she stood on her toes, tugging at the front of his jacket so that he leaned down. She was going to kiss him and they both knew it, but she took her time and he let her, just waiting as she looked into his eyes, as she brought her mouth up and softly brushed her lips against his.

Shane closed his eyes—God, it was sweet—as he let himself be kissed again, and then again. And this time, she tasted him, her tongue against his lips. He opened his mouth, and then, Christ, it wasn’t sweet, it was pure hunger, white-hot and overwhelming, and he pulled her hard into his arms, even as she clung to him, trying to get even closer.

The world could’ve exploded around him and he wouldn’t have cared. He wouldn’t have looked up—wouldn’t have stopped kissing her.

And through all the layers of clothing, their jackets, their pants, his shorts, and whatever she had on beneath her cargo BDUs—God, he couldn’t wait to find out what she wore for underwear—Shane felt her stomach, warm and taut against his erection, and just that distant contact was enough to bring him teetering dangerously close to the edge.

And by the time he made sense of that information and formed a vaguely coherent thought—holy shit, just kissing this woman was enough to make him crazy—it was almost too late.

Almost. But only because she pulled away from him. She was laughing, her incredible eyes dancing as she looked up at him, as if she knew exactly what he was feeling, what he’d nearly done.

She held out her gloved hand for him, so he took it, and then—bad ankle be damned—she pulled him forward.

And together, they started to run.