If only she wasn’t so nervous.

She hurried through the living room, trying to calm herself down, and pulled open the door. Her entire body sizzled at the sight of Quincy’s slow grin and those clear blue eyes drinking her in.

“Hello, beautiful.” He stepped inside, slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her into a knee-weakening kiss. “I’ve been waiting all day to do that.”

“Me too” slipped out, as honest as it was shocking.

“Then maybe we need another.” He lowered his lips to hers. “And another.” He kissed her slow and tender, keeping her close as he said, “I’ll never get enough of kissing you.”

She didn’t even try to think as she went up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, because she couldn’t get enough, either. He crushed her body to his, and she felt every hard inch of him. By the time their lips parted, she was on fire.

“If we keep doing this,” he said in a voice full of restraint, “I’m going to break that promise I made about keeping my hands to myself.” He loosened his grip, which was probably a good thing, because she was debating asking him to break that promise. “How is it possible that you look even hotter with your glasses on?”

She absently touched the black frames. “I only wear contacts when I teach or dance.”

“Good for me, then. You were wearing glasses the first night we met, and that’s the image I see of you, sitting at the table, trying to figure out what that flash of electricity was between us. Just like I was.” He brushed a feathery kiss over her lips and closed the door, his eyes sweeping over her off-white living room couch with light-pink and lavender accent pillows, the glass coffee and end tables, and her secondhand teal-and-oak settee. “I like your place,” he said as he walked over to her bookshelf by the settee, eyeballing her fiction novels, books on dance, and photographs of her with her grandmother, Angela, and fellow dancers.

“Thanks. There’s not much to it.” She’d never had a guy in her apartment, and it had never felt overly girlie. But Quincy was so potently male, the way he strode across the room, big and broad in his leather jacket and black boots, it was a stark contrast.

“I disagree,” he said. “Your home says a lot about you. It’s feminine and organized, and all these pictures tell me who and what is important to you. Maybe one day we’ll end up in a frame on this shelf, too.”

She hoped they would, too.

He picked up a picture of Roni and her grandmother and said, “I assume this is Gram, the famous apple-pie-making tough cookie?”

“You really do remember everything.”

“When it comes to you, I do. How old were you in this? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Fifteen. That was taken after the Summer Showcase. Contemporary dance is my absolute favorite, and I performed solo to ‘My Immortal’ by Evanescence. Gram said she cried during my performance.” Her throat thickened with emotion as she took in her grandmother’s proud smile.