Page 83 of Don't Go Faking My Heart
She tips her head up and kisses my cheek, and my eyes close. The feel of her lips against my skin is like a brand, searing me. Marking me permanently hers.
This is different than any kiss we've shared this week.
No one is watching.
It's more than I ever thought I'd get, and it doesn't matter that it's not nearly enough.
It's everything.
The storm rages on, but I've never felt more peaceful. Ash catches me yawning, and she gasps. "Rusty, it's past midnight! You're gonna turn into a pumpkin!"
I'm bleary-eyed beyond any ability to express, but I'm too happy to move. "It's fine. I wanted to stay up. And besides, I haven't woken early all week."
"I bet you still woke up at seven every day."
Actually, it was six, but I won't tell her that. I haven't slept past then in so long, I don't remember how. "It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. Just because I'm a night owl, doesn't mean you should stay up. Get in bed."
"I'm not getting in bed."
"Yes, you are! Get in bed," she orders.
"No way. The storm is forcing you to sleep over, and I don't have the guest room set up or furniture downstairs. You're taking the bed."
"It's your house. I'm not taking the bed. I'll take the couch."
"No, I'll take the couch."
"Rusty—"
"Buttercup, Tag Carville would roll over in his grave if he found out I let you sleep on the couch. Let me be a gentleman."
Her eyes narrow behind her glasses. "We can share the bed. Put up a fortress of pillows between us."
"I repeat: let me be a gentleman."
"Don't think you can control yourself sharing a bed with me, Hotcakes?" she pokes my side playfully, and then keeps poking. And feeling. Her thumb rubs over my abs, and I sit there looking down at her hand on my torso. "Or maybe I'm the one who can't control herself."
I grab her hand before I lose it altogether. "I'm taking the couch."
"Let me think about it. Uh, no." She slumps down onto the couch, presses her feet into my butt, and pushes so fast, I almost drop to the floor.
Almost.
"Not gonna happen," I say, grabbing her legs. She giggles and tries to squirm out of my grip, but I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She stops fighting, and I catch an image of her in the reflection of the bathroom mirror smiling from ear to ear. "You're every romcom readers' hockey dream man right now. You know that, right?"
"I know nothing of the kind." I toss her gently on the bed.
"I'm not even remotely tired," she says, even as she curls into the plush pillows.
"You can stay awake all night if you want. But you're taking the bed."
"I still need to brush my teeth."
I pause. "Me too. But I'm only letting you off this bed if you promise to get back on it."
