Months?
My heart stutters. I feel the floor tilt just a little. “Then why do you look like you’re about to put yourself in timeout?”
“Because I’m me and you’re you,” he says, almosthelplessly. “Because your dad threatened to skin my ass, your brothers have access to an entire professional weight room, I’m fourteen years older than you, and we’re supposed to be faking this.”
He gestures between us like there’s something visible hanging in the air. There is. It’s called everything.
“I know all of that,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t change the connection between us. It’s been there for a long time, for me anyway.” My lids fall as I gather the courage to come clean. “I’ve had a crush on you since the day we met at J.D.’s house. But who did I lean on every time Brooks ignored me, cheated on me, or flirted with women when I was right there? You. You’re the one I felt safe with. I mean, I never thought…”
“I’m glad you feel safe with me, but this is wrong.”
Gazing into his eyes, I pull on his shirt, wanting him to listen, and say, “This is right. Maybe not forever. But now it’s right.”
Silence hums between us, thick and electric. The air conditioner kicks on, sending a cool breeze over my overheated skin. I suddenly realize how close we are—his hands still on me, my palms still pressed to the hard planes of his chest, like my body decided this is home without asking my brain.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice threaded with something raw. “And I will. Right now.”
I should. But I’m a Texas girl and we don’t admit our mistakes, at least not quickly. This is complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea. We’re in a hotel room in another city because I dragged him into my drama. We’re fake dating to teach my ex a lesson. My family barely agreed to this arrangement. But here we stand, Matt breathing me in likeI’m oxygen. I feel… seen. Wanted. Like maybe I’m not the girl everyone gossips about behind her back.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I admit, throat tight. “Not tonight.”
His jaw flexes. I watch the battle play out in his eyes—loyalty to my brother versus desire, logic versus whatever this is. Finally, he exhales sharply, like he’s making peace with losing.
“Just tonight. Just once,” he murmurs.
“Are you only good one time?” The joke catches between a wispy breath and a laugh as I think about that Toby Keith song my dad used to mumble around the house.
He shakes his head and steps forward, backing me up until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed. The room shrinks, and the only thing I feel is his hands sliding up my arms, fingers tracing over the curve of my shoulders, up my neck, cupping my face again.
“This, okay?” he asks.
I nod, unable to look anywhere but at his mouth, practically melting at being touched like I matter. “Yeah.”
He kisses me again, slower this time. Not frantic, not messy. Just...deep. Measured. Like he’s tasting each second. I lean into him because standing on my own isn’t possible.
His lips move against mine with a certainty that he’s right where he wants to be. A surety I’ve never felt before. Brooks always kissed like he was doing me a favor on the way to something else. Matt kisses like the kissisthe point. Like it’s enough. Like I’m worth the time.
A soft sound escapes my throat—half sigh, half something more—and his hands drift back into my hair, cradling the nape of my neck as if I’m something precious. My whole body hums.
We stumble backward together, his knees hitting the mattress next. He sits and pulls me with him, and suddenly I’m straddling his lap, knees sinking into the bed on either side of his hips. I freeze.
“Is this okay?” I ask, cheeks burning. I’ve never...sat like this with anyone.
His hands immediately settle at my hips, big and warm and steady. He rubs his thumb in a slow circle on the side of my waist. “If you were any more okay,” he says gently, “I’d be dead. You can move if you want. Or not. You’re in control, Noelle.”
I swallow, my heart beating a furious tattoo against my ribs. I am not used to being told I’m in control. I’m used to Brooks just taking. Not giving. I didn’t know this existed.
I rock the tiniest bit, just to see what happens. Matt’s breath hitches, his finger pads pressing on my hips—not sayingstop, just letting me know he feels it.
My hands skate over his shoulders. The fabric of his shirt is soft under my palms, stretched tight over muscle. I want to feel his skin. My stomach swoops, but I don’t back away from it.
“Can I...?” I tug lightly at the hem of his shirt.
His eyes flame hotter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You can.”
I grab the bottom of his shirt in both hands, and he lifts his arms, helping me drag it up over his head and throwing it onto the other bed. The sight of him bare-chested knocks the air out of me. I’ve seen him at practices in a T-shirt, sweaty and irritated and all-business. But now my focus is on his body, not the entirety of him. His body is like a piece of art, telling his story in pictures inked over one side of his upper body.
There are scars—small ones, a few jagged, one longer near his side. I drag my fingers along it without thinking.
