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Me: I can’t stop thinking about that kiss . . .

CHAPTER TWENTY

Drake

The elevator wouldn’t move any faster. I slammed my finger against the button to my floor repeatedly, as though each hit would force the speed to double.

But it didn’t.

As the lift rose, the pace was more like a crawl, and I wished, just in this moment, that I’d leased an apartment on a lower level—anything that would get me home quicker.

Because . . .

That taste.

That feel.

That . . . mouth.

My other hand brushed my lips, back and forth, as though I were memorizing the texture of my skin. But instead, with each wipe, memories were exploding in my head.

I’d studied two weeks’ worth of data—expressions, gestures, scents—and the results were so apparent after tonight, especially once he’d pointed toward his building and I’d caught a glimpse of his tattoo.

The one on the inside of his bicep.

The one that confirmed every other sign I’d witnessed.

And felt.

I no longer had to test.

To analyze.

I knew.

And I’d been staring