Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) by Kate Canterbary Page A

together, and I hesitated, wanting more— so much more—but not knowing the right way to play this game.
    “If you do that, I’m doing this,” Matthew whispered against my lips. Tugging my hair, he tipped my head back and slipped his tongue past my teeth, and it was exactly as I suspected: he wanted to swallow me whole. A strong gust forced me against him, and I shivered, at once relieved he was taking the lead and wondering if it was the lead I wanted.
    “Let’s get you out of this wind tunnel,” he said, his hand rubbing in a circular pattern against my back.
    “Mmm, not yet,” I murmured. My lips found Matthew’s again, and we were rooted to the sidewalk, our arms locked around each other, and I felt fully and completely awake, aware, alive . And I was doing this—kissing a stranger on a street corner, surrendering to my desires, letting my instincts make the decisions—and I wasn’t second-guessing myself.
    “Didn’t say you had to stop,” he laughed. “Definitely didn’t say that. Just relocating.”
    Matthew signaled for a cab, and shepherded me inside when it jerked to a stop at the curb. “Burroughs Wharf,” he called to the driver.
    I didn’t know our destination, but being pressed against a hot guy on a Friday night meant I didn’t need an itinerary. Right? This was fine. Normal. Totally normal. There was no way this could end in Matthew killing me in the woods and wearing my skin as a scarf.
    Enough with the greatest hits of Commodore Halsted’s Tales of Evil.
    Even if Matthew was a serial killer, it would never get that far. I could break his fingers in eleven seconds if needed.
    I pulled him to me again, my hand snaking around his neck, just under his starched collar, and our lips met. With his mouth locked on mine, Matthew was different. He wasn’t the Serious Architect with his technical vocabulary and curious, thoughtful expression, and he wasn’t the Serious Guy with his intense gaze and endless undercurrents. No, when he kissed me, he was thorough and insistent and affectionate, and this version of him intrigued me the most.
    Matthew dragged his teeth over my bottom lip, and I groaned when the cab stopped. “Of course we found the one cabbie in Boston who knows every shortcut between Beacon Hill and the Waterfront,” he said.
    “Burroughs Wharf,” the driver yelled.
    Matthew plucked me from the cab and lifted me over the curb as if I were a small sack of potatoes. I looked up after cinching my raincoat’s belt, and stared at the building. This was a super swanky condo building, not a cozy tavern or thumping club. This was where he lived . “Where are we going?”
    “My place,” he said. “We can have a drink and talk and stare at the ocean and…whatever. Whatever you want.”
    I stopped walking, my fingers slipping out of his grip. This wasn’t what I anticipated when I turned the decision-making over to my instincts.
    Shameless bar flirting? No big deal. Street corner kissing followed by cab kissing? Slightly bigger deal. Going to a guy’s home little more than twenty-four hours after meeting him? Huge deal.
    At least for me.
    When did I give him the impression I was ready to go home with him? Was there a switch I flipped between talk of seesaws and soul mates? And he was evidently a manwhore. Only a manwhore would toss me in a cab and assume I wanted to go to his apartment for sex.
    Sex . I did not want that at all. Lots of sex. Good sex. Dirty sex. Hot sex.
    Matthew looked like very good sex.
    Gulp. Okay, so that didn’t sound terrible.
    “What’s wrong, Lauren?”
    “I should go.” I nodded to myself and hitched my tote bag higher on my shoulder. Too much, too fast. I was already feeling tomorrow’s pangs of regret. Oh, but when Matthew aimed that stare at me, that drop-your-panties-right-now look, I sensed myself drowning in his desire.
    “This thing you’re doing,” the manwhore smirked, gesturing up and down my body. “It’s insanely sexy.”
    I looked