Page 73 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

I take a step toward him, then another, until we're close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. His eyes never leave mine, waiting, patient.

"I've been thinking about you too," I confess, the words barely audible. "I've been trying not to, but…"

"But?" he prompts when I trail off.

I shake my head, unable to articulate the storm of emotions swirling inside me—fear, desire, guilt, hope. All I know is that right now, in this moment, I'm tired of fighting what I feel. I stare into his eyes, reading his expression, and not liking that I’m the reason he feels defeated.

I watch his expression harden like he’s gearing himself to protect him from what he thinks I’m about to say. For once, he’s reading me wrong. I’m not about to tell him the rational side of this entire situation. My heart’s racing, pounding against my ribs. And I’m tired of rational fear clouding what I want.

"Fuck it," I whisper. I pull his neck down and rise on my tiptoes to press my lips against his.

Chapter 20

Her lips meet mine, and for a second, I freeze. The rational part of my brain stutters, trying to process what's happening, but my body already knows how to respond. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer as I return the kiss, all the tension of the past days dissolving in an instant of contact.

The late afternoon sun filters through her half-drawn blinds, painting stripes of golden light across her face as she pulls back slightly, her eyes questioning, uncertain. I answer by kissing her again, deeper this time, tasting the faint mint of her toothpaste and something else that's uniquely Hannah.

Her dorm room is silent except for our quickened breathing and the distant sounds of campus life filtering through the window—laughter, car doors, music from someone's speakers. But all of it fades to background noise as Hannah's fingers thread through my hair, tugging gently in a way that sends heat racing down my spine.

"You sure about this?" I murmur against her lips, giving her one last chance to reconsider.

Her answer is to kiss me harder, her body pressing against mine with newfound urgency. I respond instantly, my hands sliding down to the backs of her thighs before lifting her in one fluid motion. She wraps her legs around my waist, her weight settling perfectly against me as I turn, taking two steps toward her bed.

I lower her carefully onto the comforter, mindful of my own weight, but she pulls me down with surprising strength. Books and papers scatter to the floor. Her twin bed is narrow, barely enough space for the two of us, but somehow that makes it better—no room for distance, for second thoughts.

The scent of her surrounds me—clean laundry, floral shampoo, and beneath it all, the intoxicating smell of her skin. I trail kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, savoring the small gasp she makes.

Her hands are everywhere—sliding across my back, trailing down my sides, tugging at the hem of my shirt with impatient fingers. I pull back just enough to help her, yanking the fabric over my head and tossing it somewhere behind me. The air feels cool against my heated skin for just a moment before Hannah's hands are on me again, her touch leaving trails of fire on my skin.

"You're so…" she whispers, her fingers tracing the contours of my chest, exploring each dip and plane like she's committing them to memory.

I should say something, tell her how she's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, but words escape me. Instead, I show her with actions—cupping her face gently with one hand while the other slides beneath her sweater, encountering the soft warmth of her stomach, the delicate curve of her waist.

She arches into my touch, a silent invitation that I accept without hesitation, my hand traveling higher to trace the outline of her bra through the thin fabric. Her breath catches, and I pause, watching her face carefully for any sign of uncertainty.

"Don't stop," she breathes, and I obey, lowering my mouth to hers once more as my fingers continue their exploration.

I tug at the hem of her shirt, and she lifts her arms, allowing me to pull it over her head. The sight of her beneath me, hair fanned out on the pillow, skin flushed with desire, wearing nothing but shorts and a simple black bra, is enough to make my heart stutter.

"Hannah," I whisper, her name like a prayer on my lips.

She reaches for me, pulling me back down to her, our bare skin pressing together at last. The contact is electric, sending a jolt through my system that has nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with connection. This isn't just desire—it's something deeper, more profound than I've experienced before.

We move together, learning each other's rhythms. My hand slides up her spine to the clasp of her bra, a silent question that she answers by arching further into me. With practiced ease, I unhook the garment, then pause, savoring the anticipation of the moment.

Slowly, I pull the straps down her arms, revealing her inch by inch until she's bare beneath me, vulnerable and perfect. Time seems to slow as I take in the sight of her, committing every detail to memory—the constellation of freckles across her collarbone, the gentle curve of her breasts, the way her eyes darken as I look at her.

"You're staring," she murmurs, a hint of shyness in her voice despite her boldness up to this point.

"Can't help it," I admit, lowering my head to place a kiss at the center of her chest, right over her heart. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

A flush spreads across her skin at my words, and I follow its path with my lips, trailing kisses down her torso, across the soft swell of her breast, worshipping every inch of her. When my mouth closes around her nipple, she gasps, her back arching off the bed, hands flying to my hair to hold me in place.

I lose myself in the taste of her, the sounds she makes, the way her body responds to my touch. My hand slides down her stomach to the button of her jeans, pausing there in silent question. Her hips lift in answer, and I make quick work of the fastening, easing the denim down her legs until she's left in nothing but simple cotton underwear.

"Not fair," she breathes, her hands moving to my jeans. "You're still dressed."

I grin against her skin. "Easy to fix."

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