Page 47 of Booked on You
“You sound like the Scrooge of love,” I say, peeling a pepperoni from the top of my second slice and popping it in my mouth.
“These days, I am,” she admits. “I’ve been broken, almost beyond repair. That’s why I haven’t been able to write.”
I think about that for a few seconds. “What changed?”
“The scenery.” She grins.
I study her pretty face, happy to see her smiling. “Glad I could be of service.”
“Oh, please don’t flatter yourself,” she says with a playful scoff.
“Okay, then, deny it.” I give her my full attention, waiting.
Sauce sits on the corner of her lip, and I reach over and swipe it off with my finger, placing it in my mouth.
“I can’t deny it,” she whispers, swallowing hard. “You’re my muse.”
“Honored, babe.”
When her eyes soften, it’s like the entire world fades away. I’m tempted to ask her to stay, just a little longer, but the words don’t come.
CHAPTER 13
SCARLETT
The sauce on my lip is long gone, but the way he looked at me when he wiped it away still lingers.
After my confession, he doesn’t immediately pull away.
Ezra’s eyes focus on my mouth, and something in my chest swirls.
He leans in until his fingers slide into my hair, and he kisses me. It’s not polite. It’s not cautious. It’s heat and hunger with a bold certainty that knows exactly what I want.
Him. All of him.
There is no hesitation as our mouths crash together. It’s urgent and unguarded, and I barely have time to think as I melt into him.
I’ve thought about this and told myself I wouldn’t cross that line again. I’d almost convinced myself that I needed to protect this man from me, from the people who will seek him out. Ezra doesn’t seem to care about my warnings, and he doesn’t treat me like a curse.
I whimper against him as I lose myself. My hand fists the front of his shirt, and he smiles against my mouth like he’s enjoying this as much as I am.
This feeling is all-consuming, and that’s what scares me the most.
I pull away, breathless. Dizzy from him. One hand rests behind his neck.
“I don’t think you understand what you’re signing up for,” I whisper.
“You,” he says. His forehead rests lightly against mine. “The rest, I don’t give a fuck about.”
I swallow, barely able to find the words. “The way I feel always ends up on the page. Some men can’t handle that, Ezra. They can’t handle my raw thoughts.”
He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes.
“I’m not fragile,” he says. “Write about everything. I appreciate and respect art, especially if it lights you up like this. You’re not the same woman who walked into my house four nights ago. Something changed.”
The conviction in his voice knocks the breath out of me more than the kiss did.
“You’re right. I’ve written more words since I arrived than I have in two years.” I stare at him, heart pounding, fingers still curled in his shirt.
