She pressed her mouth a little firmer this time, lingering for a moment before pressing a series of light kisses along the taut seam of his lips. “Tucker,” she whispered against his stubbornly closed mouth, her eyes beseeching, trying not to sound needy and failing miserably as every hot spot in her body flared to life.

She pressed closer, the heat and hardness of his body a potent aphrodisiac. She closed her eyes and teased tentatively at the corners of his mouth with her tongue, her pulse spiking as his hand clutched her hip hard and a low rumble echoed through his chest.

Growing bolder, she pressed open-mouthed kisses to his lips now, letting them linger, coaxing his mouth to join in—needing it to—sighing as his eyes fluttered closed and his lips finally gave a little.

It was all the encouragement she needed.

Her arousal, growing like a fever in her blood, demanded to be serviced, and she took full advantage as his lips softened further. Closing her eyes, she touched the tip of her tongue to the bow of his lips, tasting him there, sighing as he opened to let her in, whimpering a little as her tongue found his, moaning as his joined in the dance.

It must have been the moan that did it, because it was like a dam suddenly broke. Tucker groaned, deep and guttural, and then his mouth opened and his hands came up to cradle her face, his fingers pushing into her hair, and he devoured her.

There was nothing tentative about the way he kissed her now, and she was no longer in control. She ceded it happily to the dominance of his mouth, his lips twisting on hers, ramping the intensity up to places she’d never been. His tongue thrust into her mouth, the taste of beer and the loud suck of his breathing and the mad wash of her pulse filling her head, her body needy and aching for more.

She was drunk, and it didn’t have anything to do with the daiquiris. She was drunk on the power of Tucker’s kiss, the hand caught between their bodies clutching a fistful of his shirt as her desire escalated. His heart thumped beneath her hand like a gong, and they were moving back until the windows brought them to an abrupt halt.

Della vaguely registered the coolness of the glass through the thinness of her shirt, but mostly she was grateful for its solid state and the hard press of his body as the room spun.

She clung to him tight, moaning and panting, losing her breath and her sense and her mind, her legs trembling, threatening to give out. His body was trembling, too, his big muscles shaking her right down to her bones.

She had never been kissed so thoroughly. So damn…masterfully. Finally, she understood why some people did stupid things for those who made them feel like this.