Page 171 of Cross Checked
“Oh my gosh.” I press my lips together because laughing feels too close to crying. “That is horrifyingly efficient.”
“I’m good at planning.”
“You’re good at hockey and being bossy.”
“And planning.”
“And ruining my life with emotionally devastating statements.”
“You used emotionally correctly that time.”
I shove weakly at his chest. “Get out.”
He catches my wrist and kisses the inside of it, and the casual intimacy of it nearly takes me out at the knees, which is impressive because I am horizontal.
“I’ll be back,” he says against my skin.
I hate how much that helps.
I hate how badly I needed to hear it.
I hate that part of me had still been waiting for the morning-after version of panic, for the emotional distance, for him to decide I was too much now that he had seen the museum exhibit of my damage.
But Cade just kisses my wrist and tells me he’ll be back like leaving me has never even crossed his mind.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His eyes move over my face for one long second before he leans down and kisses me again.
This one is different.
Still slow, still quiet, but deeper than the first. More certain. His mouth moves over mine with enough control to make my toes curl beneath the blanket, and when his tongue brushes mine, my fingers tighten in the front of his hoodie like my dignity has once again left the premises.
He pulls back first, because he is evil.
“Practice,” he murmurs.
“Terrible priorities.”
“You want me sharp for opening night.”
“I want many things.”
His eyes darken.
I regret nothing.
“Careful,” he says.
“I’m literally in bed. This is the safest I’ve ever been while being threatening.”
“You’re never safe while threatening me.”
“That sounds like flirting.”
“It is.”
My stomach flips again because apparently I have learned nothing.
