Page 114 of The Clinch
When I slow, he’s there, matching my pace, matching my silence. He stays at my shoulder for the next few intervals. We head back in comfortable silence, the sticky air pressing around us as the city wakes. By the time we reach Leo’s building, my pulse has settled into something low.
I reach the door first. He follows me inside without a word in that post-run calm that never looks soft on him.
The doorman barely acknowledges us. The elevator waits.
Leo stands a few feet away, his back to me, facing the doors. Sweat dries along his neck. His shirt clings to his collarbone.
He hooks his fingers under the hem and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.
Well,damn.
I go hot all at once, and I don’t have the same freedom a man does. I tell myself to stand down.
When he catches me staring, he lifts an eyebrow. He just waits, because he knows he’s gravity, and I’ll come on my own.
The doors slide shut, the space tightening.
Leo steps into the pocket of air beside me, close enough to register, not close enough to trap. His hand settles at my waist, broad and warm, callused palm splayed on my skin.
He dips his head. His mouth brushes the back of my ear, barely there. More suggestion than contact. Enough to make heat roll through me low and immediate.
“You good?” he asks, and I hate that he can feel the shudder he caused.
“Mm-hm.” The sound slips out before I can shape it. Then, because I can’t help myself, “You?”
“Not really.” His voice stays even. His body doesn’t.
The elevator moves, the numbers climb. His hand hasn’t moved from my waist.
It’s not doing anything. Just resting there, warm and certain, like it has every right. Like he booked the spot in advance and has been patient about it.
The number ticks up. Four. Five.
I can feel his pulse where his wrist rests against my hip. Faster than his voice sounds. Fast enough to tell me the steadiness is costing him.
That’s the part that gets me.
Not the hands. Not the mouth at my ear. The fact that he’s holding himself this still and his heart is going that fast, and he’s waiting for me to decide.
Six.
I turn toward him and set my palm on his chest—solid muscle, warm skin. I slide it up to his jaw, to his cheek.
He holds my gaze and says nothing, leaving the choice with me. I know his tells now. The spark caught fast.
“I’m sweaty,” I murmur, like that should matter.
His mouth tilts. “Good.”
Want pulls low through me. My brain scrambles for an explanation—adrenaline, endorphins, post-run stupidity—anything except the truth:
That I want him.
That I’m in deep.
That his care is becoming a habit my body expects.
The word love hovers at the edge of my mind. But I don’t let it land.
