Page 149 of Blindside Me
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “Right. Because cutting up magazines and glue-sticking them to foam board is how adults plan their lives.”
“Says the guy who literally makes lists for everything, including how to love me properly.”
His cheeks flush. Six months later, and he still gets embarrassed about that list. It’s adorable.
“That was different,” he mutters, planting a kiss on my neck.
“Sure it was.” I push away from the table and walk to the board, tapping the gallery photo. “This week’s showing at the Carter Museum has the same vibe. Just saying.”
Drew glances over his shoulder. “Subtle.”
“About as subtle as you leaving that workout schedule on my pillow last week.”
“That was for your benefit.” He points the spatula at me. “You said you wanted to ‘get swole’ for summer.”
“I said I wanted to carry my own camera equipment without breaking a sweat. Those are different things.”
“Semantics.” He shrugs, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.
This is us now. The banter is still there, but the edges have softened. The barbs still fly, but they’re cushioned withsomething new. Trust, maybe. Or the certainty that neither of us is going anywhere.
I trace a finger over the Manhattan skyline on the board. Drew’s dream, pinned right next to mine. We’d talked about New York late one night: him skating in front of screaming crowds, me signing books at a packed store. Two futures, tangled together, no longer separate.
“Think we’d kill each other in a place that small?” I nod at the skyline.
“Probably.” He stalks to where I stand. “You’d leave your art supplies everywhere. I’d organize them when you weren’t looking. You’d retaliate by rearranging my protein powders alphabetically instead of by function. Total disaster.”
“Yet here we are.” I gesture around our apartment. Bigger than the one in the photo, but just as lived-in. My sketches tacked up next to his game schedules. My art supplies in labeled bins he bought “just because.” His meal prep containers stacked beside my chaotic tea collection.
“Your exposed brick apartment has a serious pest problem,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to him.
“What pest?”
“Hockey players. Very invasive species. Terrible roommates.”
I snort. “Good thing I have pest control strategies.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Extensive research on the species.” I run my hand down his chest. “They respond well to certain stimuli.”
“Such as?” His voice drops, heat flaring in his eyes.
I let my hand slide down to his abs, skin still electric from the memory of last night’s tangle of limbs and laughter and sweat-slicked skin. “Protein shakes. Slow jazz. And, for the really stubborn ones, impeccable blowjobs.”
Drew’s eyes go dark, the shift instant and impossible to ignore. He licks his lower lip, amusement gone, replaced withsomething dangerous and familiar in the best way. He leans in, hands braced on either side of me against the wall, boxing me in.
“I remember that research,” he murmurs, voice low. “Your sample size was impressive.”
“Still is.” I tilt my head, daring him to close the gap.
He does. Not with a kiss. Instead, he drags his teeth along my jaw, just hard enough to make me gasp. One palm splays across my lower back, yanking me flush to him, and now I’m the one humming, but it’s a high, involuntary sound that’s more a whimper than a song.
“Tell me,” he says, the words rough, “what’s the next step in your experimental protocol?”
I loop my arms around his neck, barely keeping my balance. “Controlled environment. Consenting adults. No interruptions.”
He grins, all alpha and mischief, and with one swift move scoops me up, bridal-style, toward the bedroom. We barely make it past the threshold before he sets me down, hands roaming from shoulders to hips, mapping every inch of me like it’s the first time, or maybe the last, and my knees hit the mattress. He tugs my T-shirt off, not bothering to unbutton it, just peels it up and over like he can’t bear to wait one second longer. The air is warm, but his hands burn hotter where they glide over my skin, thumbing the line of my ribs, then the waistband of my shorts. I shuck them off without a fight, panties following, because why pretend?
