Page 58 of Fighting Words

CHAPTER 17

SUMMER

I’m nearly naked,standing close to the roaring fire. Nate’s a few feet away, looking at me with a complicated expression—his blue eyes hold it all, the passion and the fury, the barely restrained need.

Other than the fire, the lights are low, and I imagine what my skin looks like with the flames dancing across my chest and stomach, my legs, my face. He can see everything. I feel like I’m baring my soul to him, standing here with my arms by my sides, no mask, no lighthearted banter, nothing to hide beneath.

My chest rises and falls as my heart races.

Words stall in my throat.

Everything up to this point has been easy. It’s like every decision tumbled right into the next one. Kissing Nate, putting my hands on him, letting him undress me…that was so simple. This is the difficult part now, recognizing what could happen andallowingit.

Part of me wants to run upstairs, shut myself in my room, and lock the door behind me. Part of me wants to grab my dress and cover myself and…

Part of me wants to know what it would be like to sleep with a man like Nate. Something tells me this is my only opportunity, not just tonight, but forever.

Andrew is probably my future. I’ll go back to New York and slip right back into my old life. I’ll make my parents and Emma happy because that’s what I’ve always done. Changing careers might have been the only act of rebellion I had in me.

So this is my chance.

Tonight, with this man.

Nate is exquisitely handsome with his jaw clean-shaven, his hair styled as if he really took the time to make himself presentable tonight. It’s so laughable. If he only knew how sexy he is merely rolling out of bed. Looking at him makes my stomach squeeze with longing. I’m shaking from it.

Our eyes meet, and I swear the air almost crackles. I’ve never seen into someone the way I see into him now. It’s like he’s holding a hand out for me and tugging me beneath the surface. Emotion clogs my throat.

I watch him swallow, the muscles working in his neck. Every part of him seems tensed, like he’s holding himself back from pouncing. Is this hard for him? To look but not touch?

He’s waiting for me to say something and I can’t muster anything eloquent, but I can tell him what I want, the beginning, at least.

“Your shirt,” I say, pointing at it.

The request surprises him, like he’d forgotten he was even dressed. But then his hands reach up to the top button, and he holds my gaze as he works on each one, undoing them until it’s easy for him to pull his shirt off his shoulders and drop it back onto the couch.

He’s so beautiful it’s almost hard to look at him. He’s also incredibly intimidating. Strong. Veins work up his forearms, biceps, and thick shoulders. He somehow seems bigger without clothes on. Nothing diminishing him, I suppose. There’re freckles clustered on the tops of his shoulders where the sun catches him in the summer. There’s a little jagged scar on the left side of his chest.

I want to walk over to him and trace every last detail. I want to fit myself into every groove, press myself against him until it’s hard to catch a full breath.

I didn’t anticipate this. This feeling is too overwhelming, and I have to blink and look away, stare at the fire for a moment before I gather the courage to glance at him again. He’s so patient, standing there, letting me look at him. Then I realize, I’m doing the same for him. He’s just as affected by me. We’re in this together.

I’ve never thought much about what a one-night stand should feel like, but I doubt it’s this. I imagine in most cases it’s a frenzied make-out followed by awkward sex and a quick goodbye—the feeling of sharing yourself with a perfect stranger.

Nate issofamiliar to me. I could make a home in his blue eyes. They watch me with such sincerity and conviction. God, I can tell he’s a man who loves hard.

This is no joke to him, no simple night. He understands the gravity of what we’re about to do and he’s making space for me to accept it or flee.

Flee.

The idea is ludicrous now. Tonight, I’d crawl on broken glass to get to him. I’d beg and plead. I squeeze my eyes closed against the onslaught of feelings, and when I open them again, I don’t meet his gaze. I step forward slowly, and he stays right where he is. I reach him and circle my arms around his neck, pressing myself up onto my tiptoes. His arms answer by wrapping around my waist, tightly holding me to him. My face rests against his chest, and I breathe him in deeply.

His fingers weave through my hair. His mouth falls against my temple, my cheek. His nose nudges my face until I turn enough to let him capture my mouth. The kiss is slow and languid. I feel it spread through my body like a drug, tingles fanning out in every direction. It’s in my bones.

Holy shit.

His arms tighten around me and his tongue sweeps into my mouth and I’m so hungry for him. Impatience grows with every second his body presses against mine. I moan into his mouth, trying to plead with him to push this on, to drag me down to the ground now.

But he doesn’t. Instead, while we kiss, he repositions us seamlessly so that my back flattens against his chest, my face arches up toward his.

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