“You’re nervous,” I say against her mouth.
“So are you.”
Fair.
I huff out a laugh that dies quickly when she brushes her lips along my jaw. My head tips back before I can stop it. The movement exposes my throat, and I feel her hesitate for half a second, like she’s surprised by the reaction she got out of me.
“Remy,” I warn softly.
Not because I want her to stop.
Because I don’t.
Her palms slide up my chest slowly, almost cautiously, and I swear to God I’ve never been touched this way before. Women have grabbed at me before. Pulled me into bathrooms and bedrooms and backseats because I’m six foot four and play professional hockey, and apparently that does something for people.
This doesn’t feel like that.
This feels like she’s learning me.
The realization nearly buckles my knees.
I kiss her harder to cover the fact that I’m emotionally spiraling in real time. She makes a startled little noise into my mouth.
“Fuck,” I say.
My forehead drops briefly to her shoulder while I try to regain some kind of control. Her fingers slide into my hair at the nape of my neck, scratching lightly, and my entire body tightens.
I make another rough sound before I can stop myself.
“Wow,” she whispers, sounding a little stunned. “Okay.”
Heat floods my face instantly. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I wasn’t.” Her voice softens. “I just didn’t expect you to react that way.”
Neither did I.
I lift my head enough to look at her, and she’s flushed now. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen from kissing me. The sight hits me low in the gut so hard I have to grip her hip to steady myself.
“You’re really pretty,” I say, because apparently all higher thought has abandoned me completely.
She blinks. “That’s your line?”
“I had better ones earlier. This one’s honest.”
That gets a laugh out of her, soft and breathless, and the sound fucks me up. I think I’d do almost anything to hear it again.
My eyes drift downward.
To her throat.
Her chest.
The curve of her waist under my hand.
Then lower.
Fuck.
