Page 143 of Inflame

Stretching up on his elbows, he gives me a sexy smirk. It’s the one where only the one corner of his lips lifts up, and his eyes get hooded as a result. It’s the one that stops my breath and makes me wonder how someone like me got a man like him.

Girls like me end up with losers. They sure as hell do not score men like Nic Hoffman.

He is attentive. He is giving. He is a caffeinated jolt to my self-esteem.

Nic reminds me that I deserve good things, even if I don’t always think I am worthy of them.

I straddle him and rub my pussy along his hard length.

“Someone’s horny,” he says, his voice gruff.

“Always around you.”

I lift up my hips and slide down onto him. Nic flips me onto my back, remaining inside and pulling out my pleasure so fast that I am left panting from the fierceness.

“You can do more,” he states, as if it is a fact. He is so cocky and acts as if he knows my body better than myself. It is a sobering fact that this is very much a possibility.

Even when I think it’s not possible, he proves me wrong. Maybe I’m a challenge to him. Maybe his ego won’t accept anything but me being depleted and drained of my energy. Regardless, I just hold on for the ride and allow him to dictate my pleasure—openly and willingly.

I lie spent beside him, curling into his side as we both relax into the soft comfort of the king-sized bed.

“Claire?”

“Hmm?”

“We need to talk.”

Normally I would be wary of a conversation that starts out like this. But lying naked beside him, with the proof of his arousal leaking out of me onto the sheets, I know that this talk is much needed and a way of putting our relationship into terms. We both deserve it.

“Okay,” I say, lifting myself up against a backdrop of pillows. He is finally able to accept what we are. He just needed time to come to his own conclusion without any pressure. If we can admit our true feelings to each other, it will be easier to share them with our family and friends. I am tired of hiding. I want to scream to the world that Nic Hoffman is my man. Hands off, ladies. Eyes off too.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this but struggled with finding the right words. So, bear with me…”

“It’s okay,” I say, squeezing his hand for moral support. “Just take a deep breath.”

“I think I am—” He stops midsentence and looks into my eyes. It’s as if he is searching for a lifeline, and I care about him too much not to throw him one.

I smile at him. I know this is tough. Neither of us expected it. “Nic, I feel the same way. I am in love with you too.”

His eyes look like the light gets shut off behind them. He removes his hand from mine and sits up on the bed. His hands squeeze into the sheets, balling them into his fists, before moving them to the back of his neck.

“What did you just say?” he asks, holding his head as if my words of declaration are somehow causing him pain.

“I said that I love you,” I whisper-choke.

Isn’t it obvious?

We’ve been spending every nonworking hour together. My belongings are scattered about his apartment, as if we unofficially moved in together. He makes me breakfast on most mornings or we grab it to go on our way into work.

“No.”

“No? What do you meanno?”

Nic rubs at the sides of his face. “This”—he motions with his hands back and forth between us—“was never supposed to get this far.”

“Well it did,” I state bluntly. Why is he so freaking stubborn?

He stands up from the bed and paces around the room. “Temporary, Claire. This was supposed to be temporary! It was just an interlude.”

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