She laughs as she steps past me, and I catch a whiff of her scent—vanilla—that makes my mouth water. I close the door, letting go of her hand only long enough to throw the deadbolt, then immediately draw her back to me, gentle but insistent.
“You smell incredible,” I tell her, easing her against the wall.
She blushes, which is fascinating considering where her hand was headed five minutes ago behind O’Neil’s. But I’ll take this contradiction any day—the shy girl with fire underneath. I dip my head and press my lips to the side of her neck, right below her ear. She tilts her head, giving me better access.
“This OK?” I murmur against her skin.
“Mm-hmm,” she responds, the sound vibrating against my lips.
I trail kisses down the length of her neck, savoring the softness of her skin, the quickening pulse I can feel beneath my mouth. When I reach the base of her throat and give a light suck, she makes the prettiest sigh I’ve ever heard—half gasp, half moan—that sends my blood racing south so fast I feel dizzy.
My hands find her waist, fingertips digging slightly into the fabric of her top. As I pull her closer and press myself into her, she’s responsive to every touch, every kiss, her breathing growing more ragged with each passing second. It’s intoxicating.
“Mike’s not home,” I mumble against her collarbone.
“Is that… relevant right now?” She’s breathless, her voice higher than normal.
I laugh against her skin. “It means we don’t have to worry about being quiet.”
“Oh.” The single syllable comes out as a squeak.
I pull back slightly to look at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, and her eyes are wide. She looks simultaneously turned on and terrified. It’s adorable—and concerning—and as much as I don’t want to stop, I tap on the brakes for just a second.
“Hey,” I say, softening my voice. “We can just talk or take it slow if you want. There’s no pressure.”
For a moment she looks confused, then she smiles. “No, I want… this.” She gestures vaguely between us. “I’m just… it’s been a while.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “We can go as slow as you want.”
She bites her lip, which is so sexy it should be illegal. “Slow is good.”
“Want to see my room?” I ask, suddenly eager to have her in my space, surrounded by my things rather than Mike’s stuff.
Em giggles, still looking shy, although her hands are currently resting on my chest. “Subtle… why didn’t you ask if I want to copy your homework?”
“I’ll have you know that my homework is top-notch,” I deadpan. “Critics have called it ‘moderately competent’ and ‘not the worst they’ve seen.’”
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest—makes it feel both lighter and tighter simultaneously. “Lead the way, Garcia,” she says.
I take her hand again and lead her down the short hallway to my bedroom. I’m hyper-aware of her following behind me, can feel her presence like a physical weight. My hands are already itching to touch her again, to see if the skin of her back is as soft as her neck, to find out what other sounds I can draw from her.
But I stop at the doorway.
The threshold.
Because I want her to cross it first.
I stand aside, and she enters my room.
But suddenly, I’m conscious of the unmade bed and the laundry basket overflowing with hockey gear that probably has bacteria so evolved it could walk itself to the washing machine at this point. Far more conscious than I am usually with hookups, where it’s more of a ‘here’s who I am, take it or leave it’ situation…
Em doesn’t seem to notice, or at least she’s polite enough not to comment.
I take Em’s hand and guide her to the bed. She sits on the edge, and I have to stop for a moment just to look at her. Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her face, eyes wide and expectant, lips swollen from our kisses. The sight of her on my bed makes something primitive in my chest rumble with satisfaction.
“You look good there,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended, as something in the back of my mind reports that this feels like more than a regular hookup.
She smiles, looking up at me through her lashes. “Where specifically? Your room? Your bed? Your life?”
