Page 77 of Seeing Grayscale

“We kissed, and I fucked your stomach,” I say dryly.

His head snaps up. “I thought you wouldn’t want to discuss or mention it again.”

“Why?”

Stepping closer, he places a hand on the door frame, leaning into me. “Because we were drunk—still are—and I wasn’t sure what it meant. I’m trying to navigate this the best I can, Gray.”

The fire in my gut simmers down to a low ember. Sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I close the gap between us, placing my hands on his chest. The muscles flex under my touch,his eyes never leave mine, and I let one palm slide up to his face. “Me too. But it’s harder for me to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.” I drag my thumb over his pulse point, finding the steady gallop beneath it.

He grabs my hip, tugs me flush against him, and presses his lips to my forehead. We stay like this for long seconds while his soft breaths blow over my scalp. “I wish I could be more for you,” he admits in a whisper.

The arm wrapping around him tightens, my fingers digging into his nape. I can’t help the desperate way I touch him. Both sensations of my stomach bottoming out and my heart racing have me pulled in two directions: dread and ruthless anticipation. I hate what he tells me, but I am greedily willing to accept whatever he offers.

“How did we get here?” I whisper.

“That’s easy,” he rasps, finally leaning back so we can see each other. Using the backs of his knuckles, he gently caresses my cheek, searching my eyes and thoroughly fucking me up inside. “I couldn’t forget about you—didn’t want to. I still don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I know.” My brows pinch together. “I just know.”

“Know what?”

He shakes his head, steps away from me, and leaves a brutal chill in his wake. “Come on, let’s get some food in us, or it’ll be a bad morning tomorrow.”

I nod, shell-shocked by his vague admission because itwasan admission. What does he know?

Hunter’s holds his hips while he stares at the lack of food in his kitchen. He hums thoughtfully after pulling out everything from his freezer and pantry and organizing it all by size. I don’t know what he plans on making, but the options aren’t great.

We have cookie dough ice cream, a random bag of frozen corn, some saltine crackers, a few cans of salmon, and olive oil. He didn’t bother with the fridge, only housing hazelnut coffee creamer and some water.

“When’s the last time you went to the store?” I ask, amused.

“I don’t usually go to them. I’ll order in or have my dad’s grocer bring me what I need.”

Why am I surprised by this? “Your dad has agrocer?”

He nods, bending to rest his forearms on the counter to get a better look at the items. The motion makes his ass pop, and I’m only now noticing the round curve of it. Quickly averting my eyes, I walk over to where he’s leaning and drum my fingers over the marble. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but none of that makes a meal.”

“It could. It’d just be a gross one.”

“Very gross.”

Hanging his head so it, too, is pressed against the counter, he groans in defeat. “I’m so dizzy.”

“Hung over all ready?” I tease, nudging his side.

“Think so. We need food.”

I don’t want to presume or tell him to buy me anything, but this isn’t just for me. If it were, I’d go without easily. Granted, the nerves of our situation and the whiskey gurgling in my stomach are signaling all sorts of foreboding. I don’t want to be sick tomorrow…or in the next hour.

“Want to order in?”

“Yeah.” But he doesn’t move.

“Hunter?”

“Hmm?”

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