Page 46 of Ready or Not
“You’re impossible,” I whispered, though there was no venom in the words. They were soft, amused, dangerously close to surrender.
“And you love it,” he said, that grin only widening. He kissed me quickly—soft and brief—before pulling back just enough to watch my reaction. His gaze roamed over my face like he was committing every detail to memory and taking his sweet time with it.
I groaned and flopped back onto the mattress in mock defeat, staring up at the ceiling as if it might have answers to my predicament. “You’re really making this hard.”
“That’s the point,” he teased, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on one elbow. His curls fell across his forehead in a way that made him look effortlessly perfect in the kind of way people shouldn’t be when they’d just rolled out of bed. “What kind of man would I be if I let you leave without a fight?”
“A decent one?” I offered, glancing sideways at him.
“Nah,” he drawled, leaning closer until his face hovered just above mine. “Ain’t no fun in being decent.”
He bent closer, his lips ghosting over the curve of my cheek, stopping just shy of my ear. His voice dropped, smooth and low.“…and you don’t date decent men, Butterfingers. You date me,” he finished with a grin that I could hear in his voice as much as I could see in my mind’s eye when I closed them.
I rolled my eyes again, though my body betrayed me by leaning slightly into him.
“Fine,” I stuck my tongue out at him, reaching for my phone to text Naomi and the girls that I’ll be late. “Ten more minutes.”
He grinned. “Ten minutes, huh? Bet.”
Before I could protest—or clarify that my ten-minute allowance didn’t mean ‘open season’ on my self-control—he moved. Quick as a cat, he shifted his weight over mine, pinning me beneath him. His hands braced on either side of my head as he looked down at me, his curls dangling like soft shadows.
“I’ll make those ten minutes worth it,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips left mine.
Yeah… I never stood a chance.
“Okay, noooow I gotta go,” I said as I slipped on my light blue jeans, shimmying them up my hips while he lounged back against the headboard, watching me with a self-satisfied smirk. He looked infuriatingly pleased with himself, all stretched out like a lazy orange cat who’d just demolished a third meal that wasn't even his to begin with.
“Now?” he crossed his arms, smirking. “You sure you don’t need another ten minutes?”
“I’m sure,” I grabbed my folded turtleneck from the seat and tugged it over my head. Catching his eyes lingering, I stuck my tongue out at him playfully, and he let out a low chuckle.
“Suit yourself,” he said, stretching his arms above his head, the sheet slipping down to reveal more of that golden skin. “Buuuut you gonna be thinking about me all through brunch.”
“I think I’ll survive,” I quipped back, knowing it was a lie, slipping into my leather puffer coat.
“Brave words, Butterfingers,” he mused, reaching for his drawer on the bedside table. “Let’s see how long they hold up.”
I grabbed my bag from where it hung on his bedroom chair and slung it over my shoulder. He didn’t look up, but I could feel his attention on me like a simmering heat. As much as I loved the way he watched me, it was dangerous—it made leaving harder than it needed to be.
As I reached the bedroom door, his voice stopped me.
“You forgot something.”
I turned, scanning the room. “What?”
He slipped into a pair of white Yankees sweats lying on the ground and padded towards me, a hand behind his back. Ready to ask what he was hiding, he pulled his hand forward, revealing a small box.
My breath caught, and I blinked at the box in his hand—small, square, and wrapped in glossy black paper with a gold ribbon tied neatly around it. The sight of it silenced whatever smart-ass reply had been forming on my tongue.
“What…” I managed to croak, my voice barely above a whisper. “Des… what is that?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just shrugged one shoulder.
“Des…”
“Open it,” He held it out to me like it was both casual and sacred, and I hesitated for half a second before taking it. My fingers brushed his in the exchange, electricity sparking where our skin connected—he had that effect on me, even after all this time.
I turned the box over in my hands.
