Page 133 of Jaded
“Hate you?” His brows shoot skyward. “Never. Confused about how something like that happens at thirty-five, but I’m kind of over questioning it.”
“I dunno.” I roll my head side to side against the couch. “Maybe you’re demi or something?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve had plenty of—” He breaks off with a wince. “Well, I won’t give you the details, but I don’t think I’m demi.”
“Then it must just be my overwhelming sex appeal.” I grin again, and this time he grins back.
“That must be it.”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
“Right now?” His brows twist up again.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.” I squeeze his fingers in mine, then let go so I can lift my fingers to his cheek. The rough press of dark stubble grazes their tips. “Kiss me. Please.”
He leans forward into my touch, so it’s my whole palm against his cheek, tracking the scratch of his day-old beard. So the distance between us closes, so I feel the heat of his chest nearly against mine, so his thigh presses my leg, and the bone of his knee angles into mine.
So those beautiful lips fill my vision, and I can nearly taste him again, feel the soft press—
The chime of the doorbell tears through all that lovely tension.
We jerk apart in surprise. Our gazes meet . . . and we both laugh.
“The danged food,” I groan, swiping a hand down my face as I stand. “I’ve never been cock-blocked by Chinese food before, dammit.”
The driver has left the food on the front step, so I lean out the door to swipe the plastic bag up as the teal Taurus backs down the driveway. I let the door fall closed again, but before I can turn around, a warm body presses against mine. Warm arms encircle my waist. And a set of soft lips folds into the hollow of my throat.
I groan.
Can’t help it.
Not when he feels like this—soft and warm and strong. Not when my body melts against him, like if he let go my knees might give out and I’d pool onto the front porch in a sloppy puddle.
“The food smells good,” he murmurs against my neck, his nose nudging the underside of my jaw, and I groan again.
“Why am I not thinking about food?”
“I don’t know. Why aren’t you?”
I tilt my head back onto his shoulder. “You either have to let go, or take me to bed and ravage me.”
“That doesn’t seem like much of a choice.” His arms tighten around me, and his lips brush my jaw. “You have a very comfortable bed.”
“I do.” With every ounce of willpower I possess, I pull myself out of his embrace. “And I’m incredibly eager to have you back in it. I am also starving.”
He laughs. “Fair. Fuel up first.”
I groan, but not a sexy groan this time. One of those dismayed-cringe groans where I’m also rolling my eyes and kind of regretting my decision to pull away but also very starving.
I’d probably pass out if we tried to get it on right now. Besides, I’mtired, in that post-episode phase still, which means I’ll probably eat and then sleep like a rock.
Besides, as much as I want to let him engulf me, I know better. I’ve always been a he-falls-first kinda guy—maybe it’s something to do with being demi, or maybe just being soft twinky little Olli, but when you’re the one who falls first, you’re the one who gets hurt first too.
This is so right, so beautiful, and there’s no possible way it can end well. Right? Great big jumbo feelings like this are never a good thing—especially when you’re not sure how much they’re returned.
