Page 85 of Exes and O's

“Really?”

“I’ve wanted to tell you so badly. Every single day since I realized it.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because I’m scared that I can’t give you what you need.”

“What do you think I need?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You want a full-on fairy tale. The perfect guy from your books. Marriage. Kids. Everything. And you deserve it all. But what if I’m not capable of giving that to you?”

I consider that. I think about all the exes who’ve made me similar promises in the past. How empty their words were. How it all meant nothing. Because in the end, they all left.

“But what if you are?” I counter. “I don’t need another man who makes elaborate promises he can’t commit to, Trevor. I need someone who’s going to be open and honest with me. I want someone who is willing to try.”

A sigh that sounds like relief escapes his lips. “If there’s anyone in this world I want to try for, it’s you,” he whispers.

My chest caves, and my eyes mist. Somehow, those words mean more to me than any elaborate declaration of love from my exes. “We’re really doing this?” I confirm.

“I’m going to give this everything I have. I just... I might need to take things slow. Slower than you’re used to.”

I nod. “I can do slow.”

He regards me, his lip tilting in a smirk. “Can you, though?”

“Yup.” I cover my face to hide my half lie, and he laughs.

“You’ve already come up with baby names, haven’t you?”

My heart swells. We’ve been in a relationship all of a minute and already Trevor knows me better than any guy I’ve ever been with. “Maybe. But you’re right. We’ll go slow. Glacial slow. No marriage or baby talk. And just kissing. We’ll keep it G-rated.” I press my hand over my chest in a vow.

He’s quiet for a few beats as his eyes search mine. For a split second, I’m certain he’s about to walk it all back. “Maybe not G.”

“No? Would you prefer PG? Just light pecks and hand-holding?” I tease.

“At least PG-13, smart-ass. Get over here.” Before I have the chance to pounce, he pushes the door open, crosses the threshold,and pulls my wrists from my face. And then his lips collide with mine. Hard.

The intensity is overwhelming in all the best ways. Breath ragged, he cradles my head with both hands, anchoring me so close, a piece of paper couldn’t slip between us. He’s absorbing me with everything he has, and I don’t ask questions.

His tongue skirts my bottom lip and slides against mine effortlessly, like two pieces of the same puzzle. My mind takes a few moments to catch up with my body, taking it all in. The flutter of his lashes against my brow bone. The way his fingers massage the back of my head while the other hand glides down my back, vertebra by vertebra.

I mimic his movement, slipping my hands under his coat and up his back, tracing each of his many muscles one by one as they flex against my touch. When I gently scrape my nails against his skin, he groans into my mouth, his enthusiasm for the situation evident against my stomach. He grinds hard against me, pressing me back into my dresser. The roughness seems to bring him back to the moment, because he pulls away ever so slightly.

I’d bet on my life that he’s going to turn around and walk away. Instead, he moves a strand of hair behind my ear, more gently than I thought possible, breath coming down in pulsing waves against my neck.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

“More than okay.”

He smooths his thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes searching mine, as if silently asking whether I’m sure. I tighten my grip around him, and he swiftly kisses me again. It’s tender, sweet, and laced with suppressed passion. It lasts for so long, I think I’m goingto pass out from euphoria. It’s overwhelming, how good it feels to be held and desired.

Our lips finally part, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, taking in his intoxicating scent, trying to memorize how this feels. Apparently, my feet have an agenda, because it’s me who walks us backward to my bed.

When my shins hit the mattress, I make it a mission to strip away his many layers—his winter coat, suit jacket, and dress shirt. I’m like an impatient Regency-era hero finally peeling away his lady’s dress, only to find a slip and a corset underneath. I catch only a glimpse of the masterpiece that is his abs and the dusting of ashy hair disappearing into his dress pants before I go for his belt, hungry.

He places a trembling hand over mine, sucking in a labored breath.

I meet his heated gaze in a challenge, my breath quickening. “You sure you want to keep this PG-13?”

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