“Sure you don’t want that kiss?” he whispers and, the fact is, I do. I really, really want it.
22
Kit
The last person I kissed was Clark.
I remember the last time he kissed me.
It was a quick kiss, distracted, granted mid-sentence, while he grabbed his stuff to run out the door for an early class. He asked me to pick up more of the coffee pods he loves—the only stuff he’ll deign to drink, aside from what he gets in coffee shops—which were, of course, only available at the grocery store on the other side of town. So, since I didn’t have to work for a few hours because the restaurant doesn’t open until later and he had to be on campus early, I made the trip for him. It never once occurred to him to pick the damn stuff up himself, say, after work.
Now, of course, I know that after work, while I was running a restaurant, he was fucking her in my bed. Giving her the baby he’d refused me for the last decade.
Ugh. I’m a mess.
I swallow back the memories that still feel too raw, too new, and shake my head. “No. We still need rules.”
He doesn’t nod or respond at all. I’d say he’s unconvinced, but it’s hard to gauge now that he’s blanked his face out. “Time to renegotiate.”
“Look, that’s not a good idea. If we start with?—”
“One.” He edges me off his warm, surprisingly comfortable lap and stands, reaching for his last shirt button. “I take my clothes off.”
“Oh. I…” It’s not a lot to ask, I suppose. If it makes him happy. He’s doing all this for me. “Okay.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I’m not your boss here. You don’t have to?—”
“I know, Kit.” His gaze snags mine with annoying ease and holds it. “Iknowthat.”
“Good.” I have to turn away from that stare. I look down at myself, wearing an old pair of yoga pants—which I’ll never see the same way again since the hallway incident—and a soft, long sleeve cotton shirt. A comfortable bra underneath. I chose my ugliest cotton briefs, too, thinking I wanted to make myself as unsexy as possible. I want this whole thing to be clinical.
At least I did.
Now, watching him go back to peeling off his shirt and shucking the black molded tank before getting to work on those worn jeans, I don’t know how I possibly imagined this could be anything but carnal. I’ve also got to face the distinct possibility that giving in on this one rule isn’t about pleasing him so much as it is about finally getting a look at his body.
Which, given everything, seems immeasurably selfish.
Can I do this? If we get physically close, the way he’s demanding, can I really continue to make it about fluids and nothing else? It doesn’t have to be intimate or loving. It can be bodies, doing this one thing they’re designed for. That’s it. Mechanical and necessary. A means to an end.
Right. Like thatpurely functionalorgasm in the hallway.
Oh, god. I’m an idiot.
Straightening my back, I start on my pants, working hard not to notice the way his skin’s so tightly-packed full of muscle and sinew. The wide mounds of his shoulders, his lightly furred chest, the slim cut of his hips and heft of those thighs, not to mention what’s between them, covered now in nothing but the dark cotton of his boxer briefs. Everywhere I look, I see nothing but intimidating strength. Well, that and loads of ink.
He looks up to catch me staring and a succession of expressions cross his features: surprise and then satisfaction and then intensity as hot as fire.
Flushing hard, I turn away and roll my pants the rest of the way down my legs, kick them off and stand there in the least sexy lingerie I could find. My body’s an angry mash-up of guilt and annoyance and desire, despite every attempt not to want this. Or him. Or anything.
It’s wanting that leads to heartbreak.
He sits on the end of the bed in that perfectly-molding underwear and watches me, his erection obvious enough that I don’t have to look down to know he’s big. I wouldn’t have to anyway. I’ve felt that monster inside me.
“What do you need?” I ask him, wishing his gaze wasn’t quite so heavy or warm, wishing I couldn’t see the admiration there.
“Come here,” he says, casually adjusting himself through the cotton with one large hand. “Let me just…look at you.” He flicks his gaze up to my face, eyes narrowed in challenge. “That allowed?”
