Page 102 of Checking It Twice
“How exactly are we supposed to make it through dinner if you keep doing that?”
I feel him smile against my skin. “Good point.”
But he doesn’t stop. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me back against him more firmly. I can feel the solid warmth of his body, the way his breathing has changed, and it’s taking every ounce of willpower not to turn in his arms and forget about dinner entirely.
“You’re very distracting,” I manage.
“Sorry.” But he doesn’t sound sorry at all. His lips trail up to that spot just below my ear that makes me shiver.
I turn in his arms then, partly because I need to see his face, partly because staying still is becoming impossible. His gray eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and there’s something raw in his expression that makes my pulse stutter.
“Can I be honest with you right now?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Of course.”
“I didn’t ask you to be my fake girlfriend on a whim.”
Something flutters in my chest. “No?”
He takes my wine glass from my hand and sets it on the coffee table.
Then his hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “No. I’ve had a crush on you for a while now.”
The admission hits like a physical blow. “You have?”
“The first time I saw you at work…you were wearing this blue dress,” he continues, his voice going soft with memory. “And you had your hair pulled back, but there were these little pieces that kept falling in your face. You’d tuck them behind your ear without thinking, and every time you did it, I—” He stops, shaking his head. “I couldn’t look away.”
My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “Mitchell—”
“But I was with Hannah then, so of course I dismissed it. Told myself it was just physical attraction, that it didn’t mean anything.” His laugh is self-deprecating. “Then once I was single, of course I had a crush on you. You’re smart, funny, gorgeous, and you don’t take shit from anyone. But I figured I wasn’t ready for anything real.”
“And now?” The question slips out barely above a whisper.
His eyes lock with mine, and there’s something in them that makes my breath catch. “For you? I’m ready.”
Then he’s kissing me, soft at first, then deeper when I respond by fisting my hands in his shirt and pulling him closer. It’s nothing like the quick hello kiss at the door. This is heat and want and the desperation that comes from wanting something for too long.
He backs me toward the couch, never breaking the kiss, and somehow I end up in his lap with his hands spanning my waist. The position puts us at eye level, intimate in a way that makes my pulse race.
“Sorry,” he says between kisses, his mouth moving to my neck. “This is probably a terrible first date.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, tilting his head back so I can look at him. “I’m not complaining.”
Then I’m kissing him again, deeper this time, letting all the want I’ve been holding back pour into the connection. He groans against my mouth, his hands sliding under my sweater to find bare skin, and the contact sends fire racing through my veins.
“The tour didn’t include your bedroom,” I hear myself say, bold in a way that surprises me. “Maybe I should see it now.”
His laugh is rough, strained. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Good.”
When he stands, lifting me with him like I weigh nothing, I wrap my legs around his waist automatically. The movement presses us together, making coherent thought impossible.
He carries me down the hallway, and I take advantage of the position to kiss his neck, taste the salt of his skin, and feel the way his breath catches when my tongue finds his pulse.
His bedroom is clean and masculine, with a king-sized bed that’s been carefully made. The sight of it makes something flutter with nerves and anticipation in equal measure.
He sets me down gently, his hands immediately going to my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones like he’s memorizing the moment.
