Page 142 of The Clinch
Then I ease back enough to look at her.
Her lips are flushed. Her eyes are dark. My shirt has slipped off one shoulder.
Beautiful. Undone. Looking at me like she wants to take care of me and let me ruin her a little.
I know what I want too.
I slide my hand under the hem of the shirt and up her spine, feeling every reaction. The tremor in her. The tightening of her stomach. The immediate tilt of her body toward mine.
I stand.
Pain flares sharp through my right side. Her eyes widen. I lift her anyway, and her thighs wrap around my hips.
Worth it.
“What are you doing?”
I hold her gaze. “You don’t get to call me your boyfriend,” I say, voice rough, “and then act surprised when I do something about it.”
Her mouth parts. Color spills down her throat.
“You were never getting brave patient behavior out of standing between my knees with your hands all over me, Flash.”
I carry her through the apartment like that, feeling her adjust against me, her arms sliding around my neck.
The bedroom is dim, the blackout shades drawn against the afternoon light. I set her on the edge of the platform bed and step back, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
When I reach for my shirt, she stops me. “Let me.”
Her fingers find the hem, careful, lifting slowly. When she pulls it over my head, she skims my shoulders and arms, reading what the day left behind—bruises, swelling, the ordinary damage of my life.
She looks at it with her nurse face first. Then with something much less safe.
I push her back onto the bed and kiss her until she’s shaking. My hand slides down her thigh, then back up, slow and possessive, learning the heat of her through too-thin fabric.
She arches into me before she can help it. That one small shift nearly finishes me.
“Easy,” I murmur, though I’m the last thing in this room that’s easy.
Her touch changes. Slower. Less assessment than claiming. And when she looks at me, something in her face lands harder than I’m ready for.
“You’re a mess, Leo.”
“I’ve been worse.”
She presses a hand to my chest and pushes gently until I give in and lie back.
Then she climbs over me with deliberate movements, careful of my ribs but fully there. The weight of her lands all at once.
“Liz—”
“I’m going to take care of you,” she says, and it sounds half promise, half threat. “And you’re going to let me.”
She kisses me, careful of my split lip. “Your ribs,” she breathes.
“Are fine.”
“Stay,” she says softly. “Let me.”
