Page 79 of The Clinch
The navy fabric hangs loose over her hips. When she shifts, the hem climbs higher on her thighs and the wings of her tattoo flash in the low light.
The sight of her in my shirt hits clean and brutal.
She doesn’t look up right away. Just turns a page. Settles deeper into the mattress. At ease in my space. In my clothes.
Then she lifts her eyes to mine.
No nerves. No apology.
“I was planning to wear that,” I say.
The corner of her mouth lifts. “You still can.”
I step closer and stop at the edge of the bed. My shirt probably already smells like her—jasmine, coconut, warm skin under my soap. The realization goes through me like a hook.
“You can take it back if you want,” she adds lightly.
She shifts one knee. The hem rides higher. I look at her for a long second, then let the truth out rough.
“I like you in my clothes. Keep it.”
Her gaze stays on mine. Then she turns back to her book and flips the page. I move to my side of the bed and lie back.
Calm on the outside.
Inside, I’m hanging on by my teeth.
Holding still takes the kind of focus I usually save for late rounds, when the opening is there and I don’t take it.
I feel hope before I can kill it.
The mattress dips when she moves, just enough to register it low in my ribs. But she doesn’t shift closer.
The ceiling fan hums. Somewhere outside, someone laughs. A door slams down the hall.
Normal sounds. Ordinary.
None of them help.
She closes the book slowly.
Sets it aside.
Her attention catches on my mouth before she looks back up. It takes effort not to react.
“This book I’m reading,” she starts, almost casual. “It gave me an idea.”
I don’t answer.
“It’s a romance.”
Every muscle in me tightens. I keep my eyes on her. “What kind?” I ask, rougher than I want.
“About a man and a woman.” She tilts her head, studying my reaction.
I take a controlled breath. Corner-between-rounds. “And?”
She thumbs to a marked page. “They’re alone. Late.” Her eyes lift to mine. “I thought it might be fun to read together.”
