Page 48 of Hometown Touchdown
Her brow pulls tight. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Brynn,” I say, every word heavy. “I’m still mad. I still feel the sting every time I see you. But damn it—you snuck right back under my skin, and I don’t know how the hell to get you out.”
Her breath wavers. “I’m under your skin?”
“More than I care to admit.”
She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think you just did.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just ache.
I run a hand down my face. “I know it’s fucked up, but am I alone in this? In feeling it?” I hold her gaze. “Can you really say there’s nothing still between us?”
She wraps an arm around herself like she’s holding something in. “I don’t know, Knox. I don’t know what you’re thinking, or what I’m even allowed to feel.” She spins away, flinging her arms wide. “I feel like every time I turn around, you’rethere. You take care of me like you still care, then you become Cedar Falls’ hottest eligible bachelor the next day. I just—” Her voice breaks a little. “I just wish you’d say what you want.”
I step forward. Slow. Deliberate. No more hiding.
“Okay,” I say, tipping her chin up to meet my eyes. “I’ll tell you.”
I pause, letting the moment stretch, the air tight between us.
“I want to kiss you, Bunny.”
She goes still. Like I hit pause on her entire body. Her lips part, breath catching. “I thought you said you didn’t like me.”
I close the last bit of space between us, eyes locked on hers. “I said I’m still mad at you.” My voice drops to a growl. “I never said I didn’t like you.”
She swallows hard, and I see it. Right there in the way her chest rises, the way her blue eyes lock on mine like she’s about tojump and she’s hoping I’ll be there to catch her or fall right with her.
Her voice comes out soft but wrecked. “Then kiss me like you’re mad at me, Coach.”
That does it. That sentence tips the balance, slicing through whatever fragile grip I had left.
I’m on her in half a second, one hand cupping her jaw, tilting her face up to mine, the other dragging her flush against me by the waist. My mouth crashes to hers with years of frustration, weeks of resisting, and days of pretending we’re just neighbors and not a slow-burning fuse. It’s not a kiss—it’s a firestorm. Tongue, teeth, heat. Every part of me is aching to relearn every part of her.
She tastes like trouble and nostalgia. Like mint and memories I can’t quite shake. Her lips part on a gasp, and I take the opening like a man starved, moaning into her mouth when she fists the front of my hoodie and tugs me closer, like she wants me deeper, harder, more.
God, she’s still so soft. So warm. So fucking perfect.
My teeth graze her bottom lip, not gently—because nothing about this is gentle—and she whimpers, high and breathless, and it rips through me like a lightning bolt straight to my dick. I’m already hard and aching, hips instinctively pushing forward, meeting the curve of her body like my own personal hell.
My forehead drops to hers, both of us panting like we just ran full speed into something neither of us meant to chase. My voice is rough, unsteady. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
Her answer is barely a whisper. “Then don’t.”
But her hands are still gripping my hoodie like a lifeline, and her body’s molded against mine like we were built to fit together. She’s not letting go.
And I’m so far past the point of stopping.
“Fuck it,” I growl, before crashing my mouth to hers again. It’s hungrier, deeper. It feels like I need her to breathe.
She stumbles back and hits the kitchen counter with a soft thud, and I follow, pressing into her—chest to chest, hips aligned, nothing between us but clothes and all the unsaid things that’ve been burning holes in the silence for years.
My hand slides under the hem of her sweatshirt, fingers grazing bare skin at her lower back. She arches into me like her body recognizes mine on instinct. My other hand fists in her hair, pulling her mouth open wider, slanting the kiss deeper until we’re both dizzy.
She’s kissing me like I ruined her. Like I broke her heart and she wants to break mine back. Like she’s furious and feral and desperate—and I can’t lie, I fucking love it.
We’re a mess of mouths and hands and memories, heat building like a bomb about to blow. I want her everywhere. Against the counter. Straddling me on the couch. Bent over the kitchen table. In my bed, where I can finally take my time.
