“Fine by be.”
Raider stands and follows us down the short hallway like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Gavin pushes open the bedroom door with his shoulder. He sets me gently on the edge of the bed, takes my face in both hands, and kisses me again.
This kiss is different.
Slower. Deeper. The kind of kiss that is not leading anywhere else—yet—but feels like it plans to.
I press my hand flat against his chest. I can feel his heart. It is moving just as fast as mine.
He pulls back by an inch and looks at me.
“What?” I whisper.
“Nothing.” His voice is rough. “Just looking.”
The room is quiet and warm and suddenly very small with him in it.
I reach up and tug the front of his vest. “Stay.”
“Sophia.”
“I mean it. Stay tonight.”
He reads my expression for a long moment. Then he nods.
He kneels beside the bed and checks my ankle first. Of course he does. I watch him work, the careful hands and the focused expression, and something about the combination of it, the tenderness under all that steadiness, makes my chest ache in a good way.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“How can I not? Have you see yourself?”
He glances up at that. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, pleased and a little surprised, before he looks back down.
“It’s not worse,” he says.
“Good.”
He stands and removes his vest, setting it on the chair in the corner, along with his police belt. I hope he’ll keep undressing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits on the edge of the mattress and the whole bed shifts with his weight.
Then he reaches for me.
The kiss starts slow again but doesn’t stay that way. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I feel the soft graze of his beard against my jaw as his mouth moves to my throat. I grip his shoulders and pull him closer, and he makes a low sound that I feel more than hear.
“Gavin,” I breathe.
He lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are dark now, warm and intent. He runs his thumb along my lower lip.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Yes.” I pull him back down. “One hundred percent yes.”
He lays me back against the pillows and stretches out beside me, taking his time, touching my face like something worth being careful with. I reach for the hem of his shirt and he lets me pull it over his head. In the low lamplight he is exactly as solid as he felt carrying me out of that ravine.
I spread my hand over his chest. “Hi,” I say.
He looks at me, and then he smiles. A real one, slow and crooked, the kind I have never seen on him at the farmer’s market.
