Page 128 of The Games We Play
He groaned, tipping his head back like he was already imagining round three. “Noted. Maybe next time, we find out what else we’re willing to try.”
He said it with confidence, but there was a flicker of something cautious in his expression—like he was testing the waters, trying to gauge how far I’d let him in. How much I still trusted him.
We’d already explored a lot together—bondage, spit, and my favorite, breath play. But none of it worked without trust. And once, Mac had been the only person I trusted enough to let take me that far.
It wasn’t just anyone I’d let choke me to the edge and bring me back—again and again.
Perhaps I was willing to go deeper again.
“We’ll see,” I said, letting the words hang between us.
Mac smiled and kissed the tip of my nose before turning back to the counter. “What can I make you for breakfast? Waffles? They’re the frozen kind, but still.”
“Waffles sound amazing,” I said. “Blueberry?”
He shot me a playful glare as he opened the freezer. “That’s the only kind I keep.”
As he got to work, I slipped down from the counter, juice in hand, and wandered toward his bookshelf. The library books he checked out a few weeks ago caught my eye.
Curious, I ran my fingers along the spines and smiled when I saw a familiar title.
I pulled it free and walked back toward the kitchen with the book in the air.
Curiosity gnawed at me. He didn’t seem like the romance type, really the book type in general.
“Why did you check these out?”
Mac glanced over his shoulder, did a double-take, and then turned fully to face me. There was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eyes.
“For you, Pen,” he said simply.
The book in my hand suddenly felt like it weighed ten pounds.
“I needed help, I needed to get into your head. And the best way to do that? Romance books,” he said, his voice low but steady.
For a second, I couldn’t quite process what was coming out of his mouth.
He’d gone to the library and checked outromancenovels.
Because he didn’t know what to do.
Because he wanted to understandme.
“Have you…read them?” I asked, gently setting the book down on the dining room table.
“Yup,” he said with a nod. “Every single one.”
Then he took a step toward me and pointed at the book in question. “That one? I read twice.”
Fuck.
My heart did cartwheels in my chest, flipping and fluttering like it didn’t know which way was up—followed by a warm wave that prickled across my skin, like my body couldn’t decide whether to blush or break down.
The walls I’d so carefully rebuilt around my heart? Obliterated. Gone in a single, quiet confession.
This man—this complicated, maddening, big-hearted man—had rented out my favorite books. Not just read them, but studied them. Looking for clues, for answers, for ways to love me better.
No one had ever done that before.
