His gaze sharpened. “Color.”
“Green.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Then his hand slid around the back of my neck and he kissed me.
Not like the alley.
This was slower, and somehow worse. In the alley he’d been breaking. Here he was choosing. His mouth moved over mine with control that made me want to climb out of my skin. He took his time, small shifts of pressure, his beard scraping my chin, his thumb steady at the side of my throat. I opened for him when his tongue touched mine, and the sound I made embarrassed me until his fingers tightened.
“That,” he murmured against my mouth. “Don’t hide that.”
My knees almost gave.
I grabbed his waist, careful at first, then not careful when he let me. He was solid under my hands. Warm. Real. His body did not feel strange because he was a man. It felt strange because I wanted him so much I could barely track anything else.
He walked me backward until my calves hit the bed.
“Sit.”
I sat.
He stood between my knees and looked down at me, not smug, not theatrical, just focused in a way that stripped the room down to us.
“Hands on my thighs,” he said.
I did it.
His sweatpants were soft under my palms. His muscles tensed when my fingers spread.
He touched my hair, not arranging it, just pushing through the mess like he wanted to know the shape of me there. My eyes tried to close.
“Look at me.”
I did.
His hand moved from my hair to my jaw.
“You did well tonight.”
My chest tightened. “In the game?”
“In the game. At breakfast. In the hallway. In the alley when I stopped.”
The praise settled differently each time. The game was easy. The rest felt like he had reached under my skin and found the places I expected people to criticize.
“I wanted to argue,” I admitted.
“I know.”
“I’m still kind of mad about it.”
“I know that too.”
“Annoying.”
