Page 53 of The Hearts We Fumble
“What the hell, Zane?” she gasps, her laughter breathy, her eyes flickering with something between excitement and disbelief. “What are you doing?”
I grin, pressing my nose to the crook of her neck, inhaling her soft, familiar scent. “Taking you to my bed.”
The words settle between us, weighty, unspoken things lingering beneath them. But she doesn’t protest.
When I step into the room, I drop her onto the edge of the mattress, and she bounces once before collapsing back with an exaggerated harrumph.
She props herself up on her elbows, watching as I kneel in front of her, hands already reaching for the button of her jeans.
Her breath catches. “Zane?”
There’s something in her voice—hesitation, nerves. It’s not fear, but it’s something, and I don’t miss the way she presses her knees together like she’s suddenly hyperaware of how much I can see.
I hate that she might be second-guessing herself with me.
“Wyatt.” My voice is softer now, steady as I slide my hands up her thighs, fingers grazing the denim. “You know you can tell me to stop at any time, right?”
She swallows hard, eyes searching mine, but she doesn’t say anything.
She lifts her hips, letting me ease her jeans down her legs. It’s only when the denim falls away—and the shadows shift just enough—that I realize what I missed in the dark. Black lace. Barely there. My breath hitches.
She shifts, pressing her thighs together again like she wants to hide, but I don’t let her.
Reaching for her hand, I pull her up, guiding her to sit up as I grab the hem of her sweatshirt and tug it over her head. She lets me, her breath coming quicker now, and the moment she’s bare before me, she whimpers, tilting her head back.
“Zane,” she moans, the sound wrecking me from the inside out.
The sweatshirt lands somewhere on the floor, forgotten, and I waste no time pulling off my hoodie and kicking off my shoes. There’s no hesitation now, just the heavy weight of everything we’ve been holding back pressing down on us.
“I know this might feel like things are moving too fast,” I murmur, searching her eyes. “And maybe they are. If you want to slow down, just say the word.”
She huffs out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Are you serious? You think this is moving too fast?”
I rub the back of my neck, smirking. “I mean… kinda?”
She gives me a look—one that’s warm and amused and so deeply Wyatt that my stomach clenches. “Zane. I’ve been waiting for this since I was in seventh grade.”
I raise a brow, tilting my head. “Seventh grade?”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she squares her shoulders and blurts, “Since I watchedRoad House.”
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “Oh, so that’s where the Patrick Swayze obsession comes from.”
“If it wasn’tRoad House, it wasDirty Dancing.” She shrugs, feigning innocence, but the pink on her cheeks gives her away. “What can I say? I had a type.”
I grin, closing the distance between us, my hands finding her hips as I murmur against her lips, “And what? You think I fit the mold?”
She exhales, her breath shaky as she tilts her head up to meet my gaze. “I think you ruined it for everyone else.”
Damn.
I crash my mouth against hers, and just like that—I’m gone.
“It was the whole forbidden thing,” she admits with a soft smile, her eyes glimmering with something I can’t quite place.
I grip her ankle and tug her toward me, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against the delicate skin of her inner ankle. She shivers beneath my touch, and I smirk, dragging my lips higher.
“So you don’t think this is moving too fast?” I murmur against her skin, my breath teasing her.
