Page 64 of Head Over Heels

“Hang on,” I say.

He looks at me, all heavy lids and dark eyes and slack lower lip.

“Any chance you have a clean bill of health?”

“Checkup two months ago, no one but you since.”

I smile. “Huh. So I was the first in a while? Wish I’d known that. I would have given you a really damn hard time about it.”

“You gave me a hard enough time as it was. All that kissing assholes while I stayed home fantasizing about doing this to you. What about you?”

“Clean. And IUD.”

Chase is nothing if not efficient. I’ve barely gotten the words out when he’s pushing into me. And I’d forgotten what it’s like to be skin to skin like this, not only our torsos and thighs but him inside me, how much hotter it is. And slippery. And perfect.

“Oh,Jesus,” he says. “I forgot. How. Good. This. Feels. It’s like a fifth gear for sex. Actually, no,” he interrupts himself, withdrawing almost all the way and looking down at where our bodies meet. “You’re the fifth gear for sex. Bareback with you is like a whole thing better than sex I didn’t know existed.”

And he thrusts into me, groaning.

We are both wordless for a long time, until all he can say is my name, and I bite his shoulder to keep from waking Katie.

Chapter 34

Liv

Chase is pawing through my things. “No,” he says, setting aside two pairs of jeans. “No jeans. And what’s this? Three bras? Why three bras?”

“Two changes, and one in case I fall in the lake.”

“In case you—what?”

“That’s what my first foster mom used to say. One extra in case you fall in the lake.”

“Liv,” he says sternly. “You’re carrying everything inthatbackpack.” He gestures. “You can’t take anything extra. Not even underwear. If you fall in the lake you will hang up your clothes to dry out.”

“I told you I don’t know anything about camping!”

“And what are these?” He holds up a pair of socks.

“Socks.”

“I should have known,” he says, shaking his head as if I am gone beyond help. “I should have known that if you didn’t have any decent shoes, you wouldn’t have any decent socks.”

He leaves the room and comes back with two pairs of ugly brown thick wool socks. “These. Now. What about hiking pants?”

“Chase.” It is my turn to be utterly scornful. “Look at me. Do you think I own hiking pants?”

He rolls his eyes. “I should have made you do this inventorybeforewe went to the store the other day. Athletic pants are fine. Or leggings, whatever—something lightweight and flexible. Justnot jeans.”

“My jeans are flexible and lightweight,” I argue, but he gives me a look that shuts me up.

He holds up my warmest sweater, a cotton cardigan, and shakes his head to convey his despair. He leaves again, then comes back with a wool sweater that he thrusts into my hands. It’s rough gray color-flecked wool and when I take it from him, I smell lanolin, Chase’s spicy deodorant, and his skin.

Which makes me want to drop the whole packing project and nibble my way from Chase’s collarbone to his ear and then along the rough, stubbled edge of his gorgeous jaw to his unbelievably talented mouth.

He’s watching me right now, hunger in his eyes. As if we haven’t done it ten times in the last five days.

I remember last night, and my knees nearly buckle.

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