Desire flashes across them too.

But we’re in a diner.

We’re just checking out a photo.

Testing a concept.

Except I’m thinking about where this image could lead to.

To touching, to closeness, to sex.

To nothing chaste whatsoever.

“You know,” he begins, as if he has an idea. I hope it’s to pour cold water on my head or dip me in an ice bath, because I need something, anything, to deal with the heatwave inside of me. “We should take one. Post it on your feed, since you defended my kissing the other night on Twitter.”

It’s not Summer the friend who answers his suggestion.

It’s Summer the tiger.

It’s Summer who wants Oliver, the man who’s spectacular at kissing, to kiss her again.

“Yes. We should.”

He rises from his side, moves with grace and confidence around the table, and sits next to me.

I shiver at his nearness.

He raises the phone camera, then laughs, shaking his head. “This may come as a bit of a shock, but I’ve never taken a picture of myself kissing before.”

I laugh. “First time for me too.”

He holds out one arm, slides the other all the way around my shoulders, clasping me tightly, and I am dying.

His touch is electrifying.

I feel almost ashamed, because he’s not even kissing me, and it’s not even real, but I’m already awash in anticipation.

Waiting.

Needing.

Hoping.

He peers into the screen, checking the image.

“Wait. Hold on,” he says, then adjusts his hands, moving his fingers away from my shoulder, fluttering them across my neck, playing with my hair, and then he’s leaning in.

And everything happens in slow motion.

I watch him inching closer.

His eyes zeroing in on my lips.

His lips parting.

Then, when he’s dizzyingly near to me, he glides his lips over mine, and all the hope I’ve been holding escapes in one long, delicious sigh that turns into a moan.

Because here we are again, kissing for the camera.

Click.

I hear him snap a picture.

And I hear something else too.

His sexy sighs.

His murmurs.

He kisses me with another click, another moment, another image.

It’s simply for the camera.

But he flicks his tongue against my lips.

And I ask myself if this is proving Stella wrong once again, and whether I want to fully explore her laws.

When I part my lips for him, inviting more, I know the answer.

I do.

And this kiss becomes more than a kiss for the camera.

The device slips from his hands and hits the table with a thud.

In no time at all, his hands are on my face, and he’s hauling me in for a hot, hard kiss.

This kiss wastes no time. This kiss leaves no mixed signals. This isn’t a kiss for a hashtag. He’s taking it for himself.

His hands curl around my face possessively. He holds me like he doesn’t want to let go.

He kisses me fiercely. His lips are hungry, fevered, as he skates his tongue across my lips again, and then our mouths explore each other.

Not just our mouths—my hands are curious cats, slinking up his suit jacket, sliding up his pressed shirt, grabbing his tie. I yank him closer, tugging on the silk.

And he responds with a rougher kiss.

It’s no longer an exploration.