Page 86 of Icing Hearts

“That’s genius. I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to reach everywhere, though. The one on my ribs goes around my back.”

“Allow me.”

Without hesitation, I strip out of my shirt, remaining in my bra and jeans. Tory starts on my collarbone, carefully applying the primer and then the makeup with a wet blending sponge. I’m surprised he knows to use a damp sponge instead of a dry one, but I don’t ask questions . I watch him work in the reflection of the mirror, in awe. He’s near enough that I feel the heat of his body emanating, focus unwavering.

“Powder,” he calls out, a surgeon in the operating room.

A ghost of a smile plays on my lips as Tory taps the edge of a fluffy brush and then dots the powder along my skin.

After the setting spray is applied, he turns me toward the mirror. I can’t tell where healthy skin ends, and bruising begins. Not anymore.

He works on my arm next and then moves to my ribs. “Um…so this one…goes under your bra…”

“Take it off.”

He nods. “I won’t look.”

“I want you to.”

It’s not lost on me, the way Tory takes a sharp intake of air when my unclasped bra drops to the floor. He sits on the toilet lid, hands on my hips and looks at me, bared before him. He allows himself a single, lingering look through hooded eyes that sends his breathing into an unsteady cadence. This wasn’t the right moment for me to do this. But I cut myself a break for being an opportunist when I’ve been longing for him often—for as long as I can remember. Because seeing the way he begins to unravel when he looks upon my bare chest, is an image I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

“You’re…” The knot in his throat bobs. “Perfect.”

That lovely lower lip of his disappears between teeth, and he bites down. Hard. As if doing so is keeping him focused on the task at hand.

“Arm up.”

Once that single look is over, Tory pulls himself back together and sets about completing his work. A vision of professionalism. There’s no flirting or teasing in his eyes or his touch.

At least, not until the end. The rib bruise ends low on my back. To avoid crouching awkwardly, Tory sinks to his knees. He holds me longer and more intimately than he should, one hand wrapped around my inner thigh even when he applies the final mist of setting spray.

Tory looks up at me with longing for a moment. “Enjoying the view?” he asks, words accompanied by a gentle smirk.

I weave my fingers into his waves. “You? On your knees? Definitely checks a few boxes.”

“Clara,” he breathes. “I never would’ve dreamed you had a dirty mind.”

“I don’t.”

“I beg to differ.”

Then he rises from his knees. Our bodies press together, and I wish his shirt wasn’t between us. Those strong hands grip my hips.

He does that eye, lip, eye thing and says huskily, “Just so you know, I have a few boxes I’d like to check that also involve me on my knees before you.”

Then he clears his throat and backs away. Leans against the bathroom counter, head bowed, and hands me my bra.

Chapter 53

Clara

It’s New Year’s Eve.

Vince has been off with some girl from another team all week and, honestly, I’m not even mad about it. He’s been weird and distant since Thanksgiving. We go back home tomorrow. I’ve been sneaking into Tory’s room every night. I don’t think I’ve felt safe since the day my mother died. Until that first night with Tory.

In our blissful bubble.

Tonight, everyone is having balcony parties. Apparently, the only thing to do when a bunch of teens are confined to their rooms on New Year’s Eve, is to go on the balcony and do some parallel partying.

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