Page 49 of Nash
Nash is.
His mouth. Both corners lifted. The way he said take it like he'd wait all night. The way he looks at me when the jokes stop and there's nothing between us but air.
I lie in the dark for twenty minutes. My skin hums. My chest aches. Sleep isn't coming.
I push the covers off and stand.
The hallway is dark. I take two steps and stop.
Nash is in the hallway. Standing outside my bedroom door. His hand is at his side. He's been watching my door.
He's taken off his shirt. Just jeans, barefoot, the ink on his chest and arms on full display in the light from the living room. I've never seen this much of him. The tattoos wrap his shoulders, trail down his ribs, disappear below his waistband. The muscles underneath are defined, carved, the kind of body built by years of discipline and control. A line of dark hair runs from his navel into the waistband of his jeans.
I forget how to swallow.
"Nash."
"I heard you get up." His voice is low. Rough. The voice of a man who hasn't been sleeping either.
"You were watching my door."
He doesn't deny it.
I take a step toward him. Then another. The hallway is narrow. Two more steps and I'm close enough to feel the heat coming off his bare skin. Close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest, faster than it should be. Close enough to smell sandalwood and soap.
"Ruby." A warning. The same voice from the shop. The voice that tells me to stop.
I don't stop.
I put my hand flat on his chest. His skin is hot under my palm. Against my fingers, his heartbeat hammers hard and fast, nothing like the controlled stillness he shows the world. His stomach contracts when I touch him. The muscles pull tight under my palm.
"Tell me to go back to bed," I say.
His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to my mouth. "Go back to bed."
"Make me."
His hand comes up and wraps around the back of my neck. The grip is firm. His fingers thread into my damp hair, his thumb pressing behind my ear, and he holds me there. My breath stops. The grip tightens. Precise. The pressure of a manwho knows exactly how much force to use and is choosing this amount on purpose.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he says. Low. Against my mouth. His lips are an inch from mine. I can feel his breath on my skin.
"Then show me."
He kisses me.
His mouth covers mine, and everything I thought I knew about kissing dissolves. The kiss is slow and controlled. Nash kisses the way he does everything, with total focus and absolute precision. His mouth moves against mine with patience that makes my knees buckle. He's tasting me. Learning me. His hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head to the angle he wants, and the fact that he's choosing the angle, that he's positioning me, sends a pulse of heat straight between my thighs.
His other hand finds my hip. Grips. Pulls me into him until my chest is flush against his bare skin. I can feel every ridge of muscle, the heat of him burning through my T-shirt. My nipples harden against his chest, and I know he feels it because his grip on my hip tightens, fingers pressing into the curve of my waist hard enough to leave marks.
I kiss him back. My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. I pull. A low sound comes out of him from the back of his throat, a groan he didn't mean to let go of, and it's the best thing I've ever heard. I pull harder. The groan deepens.
"Careful," he says against my mouth.
"Or what?"
He walks me backward three steps. My shoulders hit the wall. His body pins mine. Every inch of him pressed against every inch of me: chest, stomach, hips. His thigh pushes between my legs, pressing up, and the pressure lands exactly where I need it.My hips roll against him instinctively, chasing the friction, and the moan that leaves my mouth is embarrassingly loud.
"Nash." His name comes out broken.
