James Sinclair
Amber kissed me, her lips soft but insistent against mine, the taste of scotch still lingering on her breath.
Her hand slid up the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair as she deepened the kiss. She was all heat and urgency, the kind of practiced intensity from years of knowing exactly what men like me needed at moments like this.
I let her take the lead, my body responding almost automatically, but my mind was entirely elsewhere. Her lips were warm, her tongue flicking against mine with a skill that should have been enough to make me forget everything else. But even as I kissed her back, even as my hands moved to grip her waist and pull her closer, I couldn’t shake the image of Olivia from my thoughts.
Amber’s kiss was supposed to be an escape, a way to drow
