Page 86 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

The air between us feels charged, electric. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, might push aside the food and lift me onto the desk, might finish what we started before Lennox interrupted.

Instead, he hands me my sandwich, the gesture deliberately casual. "Eat. You need the energy."

"For what?" I ask, unable to help myself.

His slow smile is pure wickedness. "Studying, of course. What else would I mean?"

I take the sandwich, our fingers brushing in a contact that feels anything but accidental. "Of course. Studying."

We settle on opposite ends of my bed, the food spread between us, a safe buffer of chicken sandwiches and waffle fries.

Every time our hands brush reaching for the fries, every time our eyes meet over a shared joke, every time he leans slightly closer to make a point—the electricity between us builds, a slow-burning fuse working its way toward inevitable explosion.

"So," he says when we've finished eating, crumpling the wrappers and disposing of them neatly in my trash can. "What now?"

The question is innocent enough, but his eyes tell a different story. He's not asking about our evening plans. He's asking about us, about where we go from here, about what I want from him.

All I’ve been thinking about is him. His lips, his arms, his abs. The way he holds me, touches me, causes a fire inside my core.

I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. "Now," I say, moving the empty food containers from between us, "I think we should finish what we started earlier."

His eyebrows raise slightly, a mix of surprise and pleasure crossing his features. "Earlier today?"

"Earlier this week," I clarify, moving closer to him on the bed. "Before Lennox interrupted."

Understanding dawns, followed by a heat that makes my breath catch. "Are you sure?"

In answer, I reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him toward me. "I'm sure."

His restraint snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. In one fluid motion, he closes the distance between us, his mouth finding mine with unerring accuracy. The kiss is different from our previous ones—hungrier, more desperate, weeks of tension finally finding release.

His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones as he angles his head for better access. I melt into him, all thoughts of studying, of exams, of complicated relationships dissolving under the onslaught of sensation.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. "Hannah," he murmurs, my name a question and an answer all at once.

"Stay," I whisper, the word carrying all the weight of my decision.

His eyes search mine, looking for any sign of hesitation, of uncertainty. Finding none, he smiles—not the cocky grin I've come to expect, but something softer, more vulnerable.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

The words settle in my chest, warm and certain. I reach for him again, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt with newfound boldness. One by one, I undo them, revealing tan skin and defined muscle beneath. My breath catches as the last button gives way, and I push the fabric from his shoulders, letting it fall forgotten to the floor.

Sanderson remains perfectly still, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. This isn't like before—the frantic, desperate need that overtook us in the heat of the moment. This is deliberate, conscious choice. Every movement measured, every touch intentional.

My fingers trace his chest. A small scar near his collarbone catches my attention, and I brush my thumb across it, a silent question.

"Hockey stick," he explains, his voice husky. "Freshman year."

I lean forward, pressing my lips to the mark, as if I could erase the memory of pain with a kiss. His sharp intake of breath turns me on as I continue to learn his body in a way I hadn't had the chance to before.

His hands find my waist, steadying me as I shift closer. "Take this off," he murmurs, fingers playing with the hem of my sweater.

I nod, raising my arms as he lifts the fabric over my head. The cool air raises goosebumps across my exposed skin, but they're quickly chased away by the warmth of his palms as they slide up my sides.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispers.

We undress each other slowly. When I'm finally bare before him, I resist the urge to cover myself, to hide from the raw appreciation in his gaze.

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