I shoved my clutch under my arm, again lifted both hands, stomping his way, but this time I asked a verbal, “What?”
I arrived at him.
Then I was not in the hall but shoved into an alcove off the side, which was quite possibly a place where they put racks to hang coats during winter months but right then was a dark space totally removed from everything.
“Mickey,” I whispered, half in shock, half something else entirely.
“Uh…no,” he said infuriatedly and bafflingly.
“No, what?” I asked, staring up at him, not believing I was in a dark area removed from a restaurant where my date was, his kids were, and I was pressed against a wall by an aggressive, inexplicably angry Mickey Donovan.
“No,” he repeated but he did this shocking me to my bones by lifting a finger and gliding it from the very start of the cleft of my cleavage over that cleft, dipping slightly into my cleavage.
Even though his touch made my nipples harden instantly, I lifted my hand and snatched his finger away, keeping hold of it.
“What are you doing?” I hissed under my breath.
“Pull your goddamned dress up,” he clipped under his.
“Are you crazy?” I kept hissing.
“That guy, fuckin’ Bradley, is that a joke?” he asked.
I didn’t know what that meant.
That didn’t stop me from snapping, “No.”
“Amy, even your ex, who’s a dick, is not as big of a douche as that douche at your table.”
Oh my God!
“Bradley is not a douche,” I retorted.
“Bradley is a douche and you do not give cleavage to a douche who you’re gonna let take you out for a couple of dinners and then dump his ass when you figure out he’s a douche.”
“For your information, I’m ending things with Bradley tonight, but not because he’s a douche, since he’s not. He’s nice. Because it just isn’t working for me.”
Mickey’s expression clouded over with sudden brotherly affront. “And you’re showin’ your tits to give him a look at what he’s not gonna get?”
I felt my face get pink and not in ways that Mickey normally made it pink.
Because I was furious.
“I have cleavage because my dress has cleavage, Mickey.”
“Pull up the dress, Amelia.”
I looked from side to side in mock panic before looking back to Mickey, letting his finger go, and grasping frantically at his lapels.
“Oh God!” I cried. “Did I enter a time machine and didn’t notice it? Are we back in 1818 where a man can drag a woman into an alcove at an eating establishment and demand she cover herself up?”
Mickey didn’t answer, and him not having a ready comeback surprised me enough to pay closer attention.
And what I saw was him looking down at me, his face thunderous, his jaw ticking, looking like he could easily murder someone, painfully and bloodily.
And the closest someone was me.
“Mickey,” I whispered, uncurling my fingers in order to smooth his jacket and then hopefully slide away and escape.
I didn’t get that far.
He muttered a terse, “Fuck it.”
And then he was kissing me.
Mickey Donovan was kissing me!
At first, I was suspended in utter disbelief.
Then his tongue touched my lips, I opened my mouth, it slid inside…
And I tasted Mickey.
He was the most beautiful taste to ever touch my tongue.
Because of that, I wanted more.
And I took it, in doing so receiving the best kiss I’d had in my life.
It was deep, wet, blazing.
So much of all that I forgot everything.
I forgot I was in a restaurant.
I forgot I was on a date.
I forgot my date was in said restaurant.
I forgot Mickey’s kids were there.
I forgot everything.
Everything, but Mickey.
It consumed us both in its blistering heat to the point mouths and tongues weren’t enough and we both started groping.
I was right.
He was hard and he was hot, everywhere I touched.
I loved it.
And his hands on me, over my clothes, did things to me I didn’t know I could feel.
I whimpered against his tongue and he tore his mouth free.
But he didn’t go far and I found myself pressed to a wall by the solid heat of Mickey, his fingers tangled in my hair, his other hand cupped on my behind. My arms were in his jacket, one hand clenched in the back of his shirt, the other one pressed tight against his rock-hard shoulder blade.
We were both breathing heavily.
“Two choices, Amelia,” he stated in a low, throaty voice that sped right between my legs, forcing the wet already gathering there from the kiss to become soaked. “You either go out there and tell that guy to take a hike, come and sit at our table and have Cillian’s birthday dinner with us or you go out there, get that guy outta here, end it with him and I’ll be over later.”
“It would be rude to tell him to take a hike,” my mouth said for me.
“Then get his ass outta here, end it and I’ll be over later.”
Oh God, what was happening?
“Mickey,” I whispered.
He pressed me into the wall and his fingers slid deeper into my hair, gripping my side bun as his hand at my behind clenched.
Sodden was history, now I feared I was dripping.
“Get him outta here, Amy,” he growled.
“Okay, Mickey,” I breathed.
His eyes dropped to my mouth and he muttered, “Right across the street, fuck.”
“Mickey, I think—” I began.
He interrupted me, “You think for the next three hours that you’re gonna think about anything but that kiss and ending it with that guy, I’m gonna kiss you again, Amy, so you won’t.”
He couldn’t kiss me again. If he did, I’d lose thought of everything and probably end up having sex against the wall in a dark alcove in a fancy restaurant with Mickey.
“I don’t think I’ll forget that kiss,” I told him breathily.
“Right,” he bit off, sounding angry.
“Are you angry?” I asked.
“Are you gonna walk out to that guy wearing that dress?” he asked back.
“Well…yes.”
“Then yeah, I’m angry.”
More baffling.
“Why?” I asked.
“Reverse roles and think of me walkin’ out to a woman who was wearing that dress,” he clipped.
That wasn’t baffling.
“Oh.”
I had a feeling my fourteen-year-old daughter was right.