His lips are just as kissable as they look, and I’m not exaggerating at all when I say Drew’s kisses could probably stop wars and lead humanity into a new golden age of enlightenment. He keeps kissing me, his sweet, wine-soaked, amazing lips leading the way for mine, which are stunned but happy. His hands move up, catching me firmly on the sides of my face, which is just the framework I need to keep me upright, because his kisses are making my whole body melt like a cheap birthday candle on the cake of someone too old for birthday candles. The whole world tilts, suddenly. I’m falling. Not falling in love. Falling off my chair. Our lips pull apart as we hit the ancient carpet of the pub’s floor. We must be having an earthquake. I look around in shock as we both scramble to right ourselves. The guys over by the pool table are staring, and one calls over to us, “Need a hand there, Drew?”
