take his sweet time about it.
But he didn’t. That wouldn’t be right.
He lifted his head, whispered her name. “Elena…” It tasted so good in his mouth, as good as her lips had felt pressed to his, as good as the scent of her, sultry and sweet.
“Good night, Rogan.” She slipped away from him, opened the door and went out.
He followed, as if pulled by invisible strings, and stood on the porch to watch her run down the walk away from him, the high heels of her red sandals tapping briskly with each step. At her car, she circled around to the driver’s door, pausing when she got there to give him a last wave.
He lifted his hand, returned the gesture.
And then she was ducking inside. The engine started up. The car pulled away from the curb and rolled off down the street.
Rogan stood there on the front step after she was gone, thinking that he shouldn’t have kissed her.
Wishing he had kissed her again.
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