I nod, unsure of what I might say if I open my mouth. His face is guarded. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he wants. But my feelings toward Gray have never been about what he wants from me. They’re about what I want from him. So, when he steps out of the restroom, I do the stupidest, most impulsive thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I close the gap and kiss him.

Really kiss him.

It’s the furthest thing from a slow inching toward someone. That moment where you hesitate, where you gauge the other person’s reaction and try to remember when you last brushed your teeth? I erase it. I toss should haves and might haves and maybes up in the air, light them on fire, and kiss Grayson Phillips.

My childhood idol.

My middle school crush.

My teenage fantasy.

And to my complete and utter shock, he kisses me back. I didn’t think he ever would. But I didn’t think I would ever kiss him either.

Am I dreaming? If so, I’d better have forgotten to set my alarm.

Chemistry combusts. The kiss turns greedy. Dirty. Hands are wandering. Tongues tangling.

My brain completely shuts off, too overwhelmed to process everything that’s happening. I’m a slave to sensation, barely registering we’re moving until the restroom door slams shut, sealing us in the smaller space. I’m right up against another hard wall, and this time, I’m being pressed by a body that feels deliciously warm and distinctively male. He pins me against the back of the restroom door as he continues to kiss me.

I can’t pull in enough air, can’t breathe anything but him. My heart races, and blood rushes. I feel like I’m drowning. Everything is muffled, except for burning need. Not for oxygen—for him.

Can a kiss make you feel this way? Apparently.

My legs are on solid ground. I can feel the pinch of the heels that I no longer regret wearing because they’re making his mouth more accessible. But I’m also floating, flying, and falling. My surroundings are a blur, and my mind is a mess.

I can taste the smoky burn of tequila on his tongue. He smells like expensive cologne and sweat. One hand lifts the hem of my dress to slide between my legs, and I forget where we are. Who I am. Everything I thought I knew about lust and desire and arousal flees like pappi on a windy day.