Page 91 of Reverse

He grips my face and licks his lips, and I follow the trail of his tongue.

“Easton, please,” I say breathlessly as he flashes a devil’s grin. He closes his eyes briefly before reopening them, the intensity of the man I met still there. Inside them I see nothing but a reflection of my own desire. It’s as if a second hasn’t passed at all, but so much has changed. So much, at least for him.

“You know, Mr. Crowne, months from now—probably a lot less, you’ll be selling out stadiums.”

“We’ve already sold out the Staples Center at the end of August.”

“Oh my God! That’s incredible! I truly am so . . . so very happy for you.” Sentiment waters my eyes as he stares at me, seeming satisfied by my reaction. “I mean, I knew it was going to happen . . . and I’m happy to say I told you so, and Easton, the things the critics are saying . . . it’s . . .”

His eyes glint as though he’s justified a thought or a notion.

“What?” I prompt. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Well, you seem happy,” I say. The creased line I thought was permanent between his eyes appears to have all but disappeared. He seems more approachable and, altogether . . . lighter.

“I’ll be a lot happier when you get the hell in the van.”

I shake my head, and he pinches his dark brows. “What?”

“Nothing. I just can’t believe you’re here and that you came all this way for me.”

“Would have come a lot sooner had you answered the fucking phone.”

“East—”

“Like I said, we’ll fight later. Let’s get you packed, okay?”

I bite my lip and find myself nodding. “Okay. But I have conditions.”

“Of course, you do,” his smile stretches his lips as his hands ghost over my skin. He can’t seem to stop touching me. I can’t seem to stop wanting him to any more than I can turn down his invitation.

“Follow me home, and I’ll pack a quick bag.”

“I’ll help,” his gaze dips to my navel.

“I’ll be packingalone.”

His eyes flick up before he grips my neck and crushes our mouths together, his kiss promising and demanding. He ends it just as abruptly.

“You can’t—”

“I just fucking did,” he replies smugly before releasing me. Running a hand through his hair, his eyes shine suspiciously as he rakes his lower lip with his teeth, dangerous plans seeming to formulate as he does. “Lead the way,” he orders, his expression flashing with smug surety before a satisfied smile blooms on his face.

He turns and saunters toward the coffee shop, natural swagger on full display. Studying his silhouette, I bite my own lip, loving the snug fit of his board shorts and the spectacular outline of his muscular frame beneath his T-shirt.

“I’mnotsleeping with you,” I call after him. With his back to me, he shakes his head in obvious annoyance before jogging in the direction of his van.

I can’t help but watch him go, my heartbeat ramping up as I walk toward my car. Once behind the wheel, I catch my beaming smile in my rearview as I buckle in and take a few sobering breaths.

“Just the weekend, Natalie,” I tell myself. Just the weekend. Two more days.

Just to see him play.

And then I’ll let usbothdown gently.

TWENTY-SEVEN

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