My bare feet pad across the kitchen floor as I search for a late-night—er, morning—snack. It’s a habitual routine I turn to when I can’t fall back asleep.
The cold air feels good against my bare legs in comparison to the warmth of my room. My body was on fire after I woke up from my dream. I turned on my fan and threw the duvet off the bed, but I still couldn’t stop burning up.
I take a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with ice-cold water, lift it to my lips, and empty it in a few gulps as I stare out the kitchen window. Snow gently falls to the ground, sparkling from a moonlit sky. It’s a peaceful image, and after a while, I can feel my muscles relax and my pulse slow.
Being as quiet as I can, I gather some fruit and cheese from the refrigerator and a cutting board from a drawer, and I put together a mini charcuterie board for myself. I bite down on a grape when the fridge light beams across the kitchen. I jerk my head around and see Baylor reaching for an apple out of the drawer.
“Jesus. You scared me,” I tell him in a hushed tone.
He closes the door, returning the kitchen to its darkened state, and looks at me. The soft glow of the moon shining through the window is like a spotlight highlighting his naked torso. The muscles on his stomach tighten as he lets out a small laugh.
“What?”
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks. He brings the apple up to his mouth and bites down, wiping the juice from his lips with the back of his hand.
My mouth waters at the sight.
Baylor rolls his eyes down the front of my tank top as he chews.
The points of my breasts pebble beneath his stare.
He smiles when he sees them, raising a brow. “Penny?”
I quickly turn my back to him and shake my head. “Why do you call me that?” I ask, frustrated.
“Because you get this cute little crease between your eyebrows when I do.”
Well, fuck.Why did that just make my heart thrash against my chest?
I hear him advance across the room, his steps getting closer, and I grab the handle of the knife beside me.
The metal blade sings as I slide it across the cutting board and raise it toward his throat in warning. “Don’t.”
He stops where he is, but he’s already so close that I can feel his warmth. His eyes lower to the tip of the knife but then continue down the edge and to the handle I’m white-knuckling before dancing up my shoulder to my collarbone.
My grip loosens.
I can feel the heat from his stare lingering on my neck. And then with heavy eyelids, his gaze slowly finds my lips, and I immediately inhale because the tension has seized all the oxygen from my lungs. I feel his hand over mine, taking the knife from me. He lays it back down beside me and continues closing the small distance left between us. It’s not far, but I wish I had an extra inch to think. To process. To create an avoidance plan. Tobreathe. To—
“You’re trying to come up with more reasons to despise me than to be with me,” Baylor tells me. “But you’re failing, aren’t you? You’re attracted to me—that much is obvious—but there’s more. You like the way I fight with you. The way I challenge you.”
The hand that put the knife down is pressing on my hip, guiding me backward into the island, while his other curls around my neck.
“The way I touch you,” he says.
His thumb and thick pointer finger are firm at my jaw as he tilts my head back to make my mouth more accessible to him while the rest of his hold is gentle, longing.
“You like the way I make you feel.”
“Baylor,” I breathe out, trying to muster up the ability to push him away. But for some reason, my arms don’t want to move.
Then, the realization hits me like a punch to the stomach. There’s no part of me that wants to push him away. He’s right. I want … him. I want Baylor. Is that so bad?
Our noses touch.
“Go on, baby. Tell me how much you hate me,” he whispers against my lips.
My resolve slips. “How about I show you?”
