Page 75 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

A laugh bubbles through my tears, the sound watery and strange. I pull back just enough to see his face — the bruises darkened overnight, his split lip more pronounced, his left eye swollen. Yet his expression is soft, open, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.

"I'm sorry," I manage, trying to get myself under control. "I'm just…overwhelmed."

His thumb catches a tear on my cheek, wiping it away with careful precision. "Good overwhelmed or bad overwhelmed?"

"Good. So good it hurts." The words pour out now, unstoppable. "I never thought I'd have this. Never thought I'd feel like this. And with you of all people — the guy I convinced myself I hated. But you're not who I thought you were. Or maybe you are, but there's so much more, and I just—"

He silences my rambling with the gentlest of kisses, mindful of both our injured lips. The contact sends electricity coursing through me, awakening every nerve ending despite its tenderness.

He pulls back suddenly, eyes wide with alarm. "Your lip. I forgot. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

I touch my lip, feeling the tenderness where Byron's elbow connected last night. The pain is there, but distant.

"I'm okay," I assure him, wiping away the remaining tears with the back of my hand. "More than okay. I'm falling in love with you too, Cade."

The words hang between us, simple and profound. His eyes search mine, looking for any hesitation, any doubt. Finding none, his expression transforms — a slow-blooming smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, softens the hard lines of his jaw, makes him impossibly more beautiful despite the bruises marking his skin.

"Say that again," he whispers, his hand coming up to cradle my cheek.

Heat rises to my face under his intense gaze. "I'm falling in love with you."

"Show me," he says, the words both a request and a challenge. "Kiss me."

I rise to my knees, shifting to straddle his lap. His hands settle naturally at my waist, steadying me as I lean forward. Our eyes lock, a silent conversation passing between us — acknowledgment of what we've lost, what we've found, what we're building from here on.

The first kiss is careful, mindful of our injuries. The second, bolder. By the third, caution gives way to hunger, to the intoxicating knowledge that this isn't just desire — it's something deeper, richer, more terrifying and wonderful than anything I've experienced before.

His hands slide beneath my shirt, warm against my skin as they trace a path up my sides. I mirror his movements, fingers exploring the planes of his chest, the definition of his shoulders, each touch a wordless confession. When he winces slightly as I graze his ribs, I pull back, concern overtaking desire.

"Are you okay?"

He nods, capturing my hands and bringing them to his lips. "Never better."

I don't quite believe him — the bruises on his torso must be painful — but the heat in his gaze silences my objections. Instead, I press gentle kisses to his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, instinctively avoiding the areas marked by yesterday's violence.

"Saylor," he whispers, my name a prayer on his lips as my kisses travel lower, across his chest, down the lean muscles of his abdomen.

I want to worship him, to erase the memory of Byron's fists with the touch of my lips, to communicate without words everything I'm still learning to say aloud.

Without much effort, his cock springs out of his boxers. He throws his head back, panting when I wrap my hand around it. His morning wood deserves a little taste test, so I run my tongue from the bottom and lick all the way to his tip.

"Saylor," he whispers.

I don't want to stop, even with the cut on my lip starting to split. I take him as deep as I can. His hands pull my hair out of my face, watching as I slide my mouth around him.

"Baby," he moans. "Fuck, Say. That’s so fucking good."

I take him to the back of my throat again, and his head falls onto the pillow.

"I need you," he murmurs. "Saylor."

I look up at him, pulling my mouth away. "You need what?"

He grabs me in one swift motion. I fall onto my back, giggling. He pulls off my pajama shorts and throws them on the ground.

"I love you, Saylor," he says, staring at me.

I sit up to pull off my shirt, wanting him to be turned on at the sight of me.

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