Page 90 of Caught Stealing

He rolls his lips inward and nods, not meeting my eyes. “I always have been.”

I knew his more-than-overbearing nature was a big reason he never wanted Kason and I together. It was obvious from the very first time Phoenix stopped me from taking Kason home—even if there was another major reason that had nothing to do with his best friend.

Phoenix clears his throat and lifts his gaze. I can tell there’s plenty more to this story of Kason and him. More truths not his to tell me, nor are they mine to ask for.

But one thing is for certain: I had no idea how deep this loyalty ran until now.

And as if reading my thoughts, he quietly adds, “I’ll always protect the ones I care about. However I can.”

All the oxygen might as well have been sucked out of the room as I do my best not to let my mind run rampant with ideas it has no business thinking. Like how his sentence could apply not only to Kason, but to me too. Because this is new and fun, even if it is on his terms of exclusivity. There’s no reason my heart should be stumbling over the thought of Phoenix not only caring for me but caring enough to fight for me. Not yet, anyway.

So yeah, my brain should stay far, far away from those thoughts.

Yet no amount of mental fortitude is enough to stop them from sneaking through the cracks.

Licking my lips, I let out a soft laugh and attempt to defuse the emotion and tension flowing between us in an electric current. Lord knows what might happen if I don’t.

“I guess I should be honored that you’d punch someone for me, then.”

A half-hearted chuckle leaves him. “Yeah, you should be, considering my coach is probably gonna kill me for it.”

From the looks of it, he’ll be fine in a few days. I doubt his coach will even notice.

“Just don’t turn into Quinton de Haas on me, okay?” I say lightly, poking fun at the hot-headed winger Oakley’s been at odds with for years now.

His nose wrinkles up as he puts his hand under the running water, only to pull it out immediately when it stings. “Yeah, I’ve got no intention of that. I forgot how much the aftermath sucks.”

Rather than letting him do the punchingandthe cleanup, I grab the cloth from his right hand before he goes back to work on the cuts. My body slides between him and the sink, and I take his hand to slowly begin dabbing away the now-dried blood, careful not to reopen the wound already starting to scab over.

He lets me work in silence, though I can feel the heat of his stare on my cheek as more and more blood wipes away from his skin and disappears down the drain as I rinse out the towel. It doesn’t take more than five minutes total, but it might be one of the most intimate moments we’ve shared together.

Just…comfortable silence while I take care of him.

“They look small enough that you shouldn’t even need bandages,” I say softly once I’ve finished, setting the washcloth down over the faucet behind me. “But I can wrap it if you want. Just tell me where the gauze is.”

He holds his hand up, clenching and unclenching his fist to check for bleeding. “It looks fine, just gonna be sore for a bit.”

His attention shifts from his hand to me, and once again, I see the same emotion as earlier swirling in his dark irises. Maybe that’s what possesses me to grab his hand again and lift it to my lips, brushing a feather-light kiss over each scrape and scratch. Like he’s a kid all over again, and a kiss can make anything better.

His stare is red-hot on my face as I do it, eyes never once leaving me, even as I release him. And though it might be crazy, I hear his words in my head well before he actually says them aloud in his gruff whisper.

“Thank you.”

Swallowing, I lower his hand back to his side despite the parts of me begging not to. Despite my body screaming to hold him tighter, closer, longer.

To never fucking let go.

“You don’t have to thank me.” The words come out gentle, barely more than a whisper. “I should be the one saying thank you.”

“For punching someone out?” When I nod, he lets out a little scoff. “I hardly think that merits it, but you’re welcome.”

The consuming need to touch him roars back to life—the bone-deep urge too great to withstand anymore—and my hands trail down his back without warning. They coast over the fabric of his shirt until reaching the hemline, where they finally slip beneath the cotton and find his skin.

It’s on fire beneath my fingertips.

“Well, I do.” My voice is thick with lust and heightened emotion when I meet his eyes. “So, just let me thank you.”

I’m not sure which of us moves first, only that our mouths collide seconds later in a kiss equal parts sensual and desperate. As seductive and provocative as it is frenzied.

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