"Hi." His voice dips low—intimate.
"Hi yourself." Mine comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, and the tenderness in the gesture makes my chest ache. "You know, back to the consent thing,” he says softly, "I was awake."
My breath stutters. “What?"
"Both nights." His thumb traces my cheekbone, his eyes never leaving mine. "Every time you touched me. When your fingers traced my arms, played with my hair." His voice drops even lower. "Every time you whispered my name in the dark, thinking I couldn't hear you."
Heat floods my face as the implications sink in. All those moments I thought were private—my quiet exploration of him, the confessions I breathed into the night... okay, I might actually die on the spot.
"Why did you let me keep talking?" The words barely make it past my lips.
"Because I wanted to hear everything. Every confession. Every fear." His eyes search mine, stealing my breath. "Every hope."
My heart pounds against my ribs, a desperate rhythm. "And now?"
"Now I want you to say it all again." His thumb traces my bottom lip, igniting every nerve ending. "But this time, looking at me."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Holly
The ability tospeak slips away with his words and the way his thumb lazily seduces my mouth.
Because this is Chance—the man who held my hand in the dark. Who believes in me when I can't believe in myself. The man who hurt me. The man who's trying so damn hard to make it right.
"I missed you today," he says softly, his thumb still tracing patterns on my skin. "Missed this."
"What, my sparkling wit and casual blackmail?"
"You." The word carries weight, heavy with meaning.
One small shove and he's sitting back, looking up at me with heated surprise as I rise to my knees.
"My turn." I plant one knee on either side of his hips, settling into his lap. Because I can’t think under him. But up here, I have the control. Or at least, it’s easier to tell myself that.
His hands automatically grip my waist as I thread my fingers through his hair. "Problem, soldier?"
“Not at all.”
I roll my hips experimentally, and his fingers dig into my sides. All that military control and I can make him come undone with one simple move. An intoxicating rush of power fills me knowing that.
My new favorite game—how many sounds can I drag out of GI Composure before he snaps?
"While I’ve got you where I want you," I breathe against his ear, "I don’t need an assist with living up to the nickname. I’m an overachiever, self-taught, and proved highly-proficient."
The sound he makes is absolutely feral. His mouth finds my throat as his hands slide up my back, under my shirt. But I keep control, using my grip on his hair to guide him where I want him.
Even as my heart threatens to pound straight out of my chest.
Because this is Chance.
The man who's had me hot and bothered since he fondled my favorite pair of manifestation underwear like some shameless panty bandit.
The one who hurt me.
The one who's trying so hard to make it right that my chest aches with it.
