“Dr. Stanford.”
She circled Decker, fingers reaching of their own accord, but she stopped short of touching his flesh. “Everything okay? No infection?”
He turned his head, and she didn’t know whether to stare at his profile or the bulk of his shoulder muscle. “Everything’s fine. He said you did great work.”
She smiled to herself and stepped away from him. He faced her, hands curled into loose fists at his sides.
Unable to stare at the god of a man for too long, she looked around his room, taking in details she’d been too focused to notice before. The space was military neat, but what caught her attention were the towering stacks of books everywhere. On the dresser, the nightstand, even piled on the floor beside his bed.
She wagged her head. “Wow. Felicity wasn’t lying about the books.” She moved closer to examine the titles. “This is quite the to-be-read pile.”
“No.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s my DR pile.”
She arched an eyebrow, turning to face him. “DR?”
“Done-read. I’ve read all of them.”
Stunned, she just stared at the books—hardbacks and paperbacks too. Many new, some well-worn, suggesting he picked them up at the free library in the Willowbrook park or in a junk shop.
She looked around the room again, counting the stacks with new eyes. There had to be at least two hundred books scattered around his quarters. “All of these?”
“Yes.”
“Impressive.” The word came out breathless. She moved to the stack nearest his bed, reading the spines—militaryhistory, philosophy, classic literature, thrillers and even some contemporary fiction.
She trailed a finger over a spine. “I always went for guys that were really good looking, not smart.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it, and heat immediately flooded her cheeks. She whipped around. “Oh God! That came out wrong. You’reverygood-looking, Decker.Extremelygood-looking. But my other boyfriends were just really good-looking. Nothing upstairs.”
The silence stretched between them, and she wanted to crawl under his bed and hide.
“You think I’m good looking?” His voice carried a note of amusement that made her look up.
“Are you serious? Have you seen yourself?” She gestured at him helplessly. “You’re like…ridiculously attractive. But that’s not the point. The point is that you’re also intelligent and thoughtful and—”
He was moving toward her before she could finish the sentence, closing the distance between them with that predatory grace that made her stomach flip. When he reached her, he didn’t stop until she was backed against his dresser, his hands braced on either side of her.
“You’ve been looking for me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” The word came out as barely a whisper.
“Why?”
“Because…I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.” The whispered confession tumbled out, honest and raw. “Because I keep replaying it in my head and wondering if it meant what I thought it meant, or if you were just caught up in the moment and now you regret it.”
He searched her gaze, and she could see the war going on behind his eyes—desire battling with something that looked like restraint.
“I don’t regret it.” His breath washed over her face, fresh with mint toothpaste. “But I should.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering, he cupped her face in his hands, the same way he had in the library. “Because you’re dangerous, Willow. You make me want things I have no business wanting.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.”
He kissed her then, and it was even better than she remembered. His lips were firm and warm against hers, moving with a confidence that made her knees threaten to buckle. When she opened for him, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that made fire pool low in her belly.
She reached for him and pulled him closer, needing to feel the solid weight of him against her. He pressed his body flush against hers until she was trapped between the hard wood of the dresser and the harder planes of his chest.
