Page 73 of The Grumpy Defenseman
Not enough to start anything.
Enough to rearrange my breathing.
“Evan.”
“Mm.”
“You are injured.”
“I’m sitting.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s part of the point.”
His mouth stayed there.
One steady point of contact.
My fingers tightened in his hair. His hands stayed on the backs of my legs, not moving, which was somehow worse than if they had. The man had weaponized stillness. Again.
I made the mistake of looking down.
His mouth was still against my skin. His eyes were closed now, his faceturned into me like this was the only soft place he had found all night. The bruise cut across his side, ugly and real, but his hands were warm and careful, and the whole impossible, infuriating man of him was sitting in my kitchen with pain in his body and trust in his grip.
I slid my fingers deeper into his hair and held on.
“Fine,” I said quietly. “One kiss.”
He looked up at me like he knew we were both lying and liked me enough not to say it first.
When I kissed him, it was slow because it had to be.
Careful because of the ribs.
Hot because tenderness had teeth when it wanted to.
He did not chase.
That was what nearly undid me.
He sat there and let me choose the depth of it, the angle, the pace. Every inch of restraint in him felt more intimate than urgency would have. His hands stayed atmy thighs, but his thumbs moved once, then again, barely there, as if he was reminding himself he was allowed to touch.
I shifted closer, and he inhaled through his nose.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Not controlled enough.
Good.
His mouth opened under mine, and the kiss deepened by degrees. No rush. No desk. No losing ourselves because the room had tipped and gravity had stopped caring. This was deliberate. It was Evan letting me set the line and then holding it with both hands even though I could feel exactly how much it cost him.
That was the problem with restraint.
I let my hand slide from his hair to the back of his neck. His skin was warm under my palm. His pulse worked hard beneath my thumb.
