Page 41 of Bound

Date. Not fucking.

Making this special, making itperfect. Not taking advantage.

I nod toward the limo idling at the curb. “There,” I say, drawing her forward.

A glance at the limo. Then at me. Then back to the curb. “Where?—?”

“In the car, kitty cat,” I order softly, nodding my thanks at the driver when he pulls open the door.

“It’s not a car. It’s a limo.”

Amusement in my belly. “In thelimo, sweetheart.”

Another glance at me before she folds herself in with an adorable grunt, her movements somehow both cute and klutzy mixed together, especially when she hits her head against the fabric-covered ceiling. “Ow,” she whispers, rubbing her head.

I brush her hands away, gentle massage the spot. “Better?” I ask a few moments later.

“Yeah.” A shrug. “I’m always doing that, always running into things. It’s why I don’t ever get on the ice even though Luc and Smitty have both tried to teach me.”

My brows draw together. “I’ve seen you out there before.”

At charity events and team bonding get togethers.

She scowls and that’s fucking adorable too. “Only because Smitty forced me to. I’m not cut out for flying around out there on skinny metal blades, all while attempting to avoid plowing into other people and not kill myself in the process.”

I grin, remembering then that shehadended up on that lush ass a time or dozen, and pull out the basket of baked goodsI picked up for her—including a half-dozen chocolate muffins. There not Dommie’s, but they’ll have to do. “I could teach you,” I offer, holding out the basket.

“Nope,” she says, popping the p, and I don’t miss that she snags one of those muffins. “You couldtrybut it would be a failure because I’m hopeless. See these?” She lifts a jean-clad leg. The material is skintight and showing off curves I’ve admired far too often. “Theseare weak ankles. No matter how good the skate, I can’t keep from looking like a baby deer out there.”

“Bambi,” I say, remembering the guys teasing her with the nickname.

Her nose wrinkles. “Yup. That’s where Smitty’s moniker came from.” A beleaguered smile. “Though, thankfully, he seems to have forgotten it in lieu of Clairey Girl of late.”

“He hasn’t forgotten,” I tease, taking my own muffin, prompting her to unpeel the wrapper of hers and start eating. “He’s just biding his time, waiting for the precise right moment to bring it back out again.”

A giggle. “You’re probably right,Boxie.”

“Hey,” I shrug. “At least my nickname isn’t Glitter.”

Her eyes dance as she giggles again. “True.”

Then we fall quiet as we finish our food, and I find myself at a loss for what to say. Bantering with her feels right, feels better than anything except for touching her, kissing her…

But it’s not enough.

And yet, at the same time, I don’t want to make this about the past, about my fuckups, about me not being a good person.

I want her to have a great fucking day.

Bar none. Hands down. Without question. Effortlessly?—

I’m rambling.

In my own fucking mind.

Christ.

“What?” she asks.

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