against hers. But then she stepped in front of him, her fingers curling around the back of his neck, and started to climb. One knee planted beside his hip, the other swinging over, her skirt bunching higher and higher until it hit the crease of her thigh—and suddenly, his script dissolved.
The words he’d memorized evaporated, replaced by the sound of her breath, the feel of her palm flat against his chest, the way her hair fell forward, tickling his jaw. He’d planned to be smooth, to take his time, but now his hands hovered, unsure, as she settled into a straddle that made his vision blur.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asked, her smile playful, but there was a knowing glint in her eye. He nodded, because it was true—whatever clever lines he’d rehearsed didn’t stand a chance against the reality of her, here, now, her skirt riding up to places that made his throat go dry. Some moments rewrite the script. This was one of them.