"I just told you I loved you," I said. "In the cold. At six in the morning. I drove?—"
"Two and a half hours, I know." His thumbs traced my collarbones. "I was there."
"So you could maybe?—"
"I could," he agreed. "But I'm not going to."
I narrowed my eyes. "I hate you."
"No you don't." He reached around and unhooked my bra with one hand, which I refused to find attractive. "You love me. You said so."
"I'm reconsidering."
"Mm." He slid the straps down my shoulders and looked at me and the reconsideration evaporated completely. His eyes moved over me slow, taking stock.
“What's the hold-up?” I asked.
He slid his hands up from my hips. Twirled his fingers around the peaks of my breasts.
“Trying to decide what I want to do with you,” he growled. “My girl.”
The words settled low in my stomach.
My girl.
"You're stalling," I said. My voice came out less steady than I wanted.
"I'm not stalling." His thumbs moved in slow circles and my eyes tried to close. "I'm deciding. There's a difference."
"Sawyer—"
"Shh." He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my collarbone, the curve of my breast, unhurried, like he had all morning andintended to use it. "I've been thinking about this for a week. Let me have it."
"You've been thinking about—" I stopped, grabbed his shoulders. "You've been thinking about this for a week and your solution is to go slow?"
"My solution," he said against my skin, "is to do it right."
"I will get down off this counter."
"You won't."
He was correct. I wouldn't. My legs were already hooked around the backs of his thighs and my hands were in his hair and I had approximately no leverage, physical or moral.
"You're insufferable," I told him.
"Mm." He pulled back and looked at me, dark-eyed, the medal swinging forward. "Hands behind your back."
I stared at him.
"Daniela."
"We've been apart for a week?—"
"And I want to look at you." His voice dropped. "Hands. Behind your back."
I held his gaze for one long defiant second.
Then I put my hands behind my back.
