Page 64 of Finding Gideon
“Well, don’t fix it. I like this version.” She was quiet for a beat, then added, “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m glad to hear you sounding more like you.”
My chest tightened a little in that way it does when your mother somehow reaches through the phone and straight into your ribcage.
“I’ll call you next week,” I said after a moment. “Tell Dad to take care of himself.”
“He’s still here. Eating peanuts. Making a mess.”
I heard him in the background: “I’m conserving energy.”
“Sure you are, Dad.”
Mom laughed. “I’ll let you go. Love you, son.”
“Love you too, Ma.”
The smell of coffee drifted into the hall, rich and sharp. I leaned on the kitchen doorway and let myself watch him. There was nothing sexual about the way he made coffee—except maybe the way his forearms flexed when he filled the pot. And the way my stomach dipped when he smiled at something in his own head.
Okay. Maybe there was something.
What the hell was I doing? This wasn’t me—at least, not until lately. But there I was, staring at him like the caffeine wasn’t the thing I wanted most right now.
I stepped inside, close enough for our arms to brush. “Smells good.” The word slipped out before I could catch it. He blushed, but his chin tilted up like he wasn’t going to let me see him flustered.
Two mugs waited on the counter, steam curling from both. His hands were empty now. I should’ve said thanks and walked out. Instead, I stayed right there, my pulse doing that steady thump-thump in my throat.
On impulse I hugged him from behind, my chest brushing his back, my palms finding the slope of his hips. He stilled, but he didn’t move away.
“Do you mind?”
“N–No…”
My nose brushed the spot beneath his ear; his breath caught.
The scent of him was warm skin and soap, and under that—want. My want.
He leaned back a fraction, enough that I felt the flex of his thigh against mine, his ass against my groin. I slid one palm lower, tracing the line of his waistband, not quite inside.
He leaned back into me. I felt his weight settle against my chest, the flex of his thigh against mine, his ass against my groin. My palms found his hips, thumbs brushing the warm strip of skin where his shirt had ridden up. He stilled, but it wasn’t revulsion; it was arousal.
My mouth was close enough to his ear that I didn’t have to speak loud. “Do you always make coffee this distracting?”
He gave a little huff, like he was trying not to smile. “Pretty sure that’s your problem, not mine.”
“Could be,” I said, letting my hands slide lower, fingertips teasing the line of his waistband.
He twisted his head to glance at me over his shoulder, lips twitching. “You realize we’re at the clinic? We’re supposed to be working.”
“Correction,” I said, leaning in so my words brushed his skin, “you’re supposed to be working. I’m the boss.”
That got him to snort. “You arethe worstboss.”
“And yet…” I dragged my thumbs an inch further inside his waistband, “…here we are.”
Color climbed his cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling.”
He let out this half-laugh, half-sigh that hit me low in the gut. I knew what he felt like naked against me—we’d already done that much. But I didn’t know what his dick felt like in my bare hand. I wanted to. Badly. I wanted to wrap my palm around him, feel the weight, make him tremble when I stroked him just right.
