“You have no idea.” He turns off the oven, which I think was preheating, then walks over to the kitchen sink, his back to me. “You want to stand or sit?”
“Give me a minute,” I tell him. “You’re not going to rush me,” I say.
“Nope, I won’t.”
“Even though you want to.”
“Especially because I want to.” His voice drops.
And that, the not rushing me, is another one of the most attractive things about Caleb Adams. There’s a list for that too. But that one’s stored in my head for safekeeping.
I cross to him. That much I can do on my own. But it’s the last few inches I can’t seem to do, which he reads, the way he reads everything, and he closes them himself.
“I’m going to put my hands on your face,” he says, staring down at me. And then he does, warm along my jaw, tipping my chin so I’m looking at his mouth, which is where I can look. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
He kisses me, and because he told me it was coming, I’m one hundred percent there for it. All of me. No piece of me is already sprinting for an exit.
That is not a small thing.
That’s everything.
“Okay?” he says against my mouth.
“Keep talking.”
“I didn’t figure you for wanting a play-by-play,” he smirks.
“I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything, Adams. Don’t stop.”
Something in him goes serious and soft at once. So he tells me everything before he does it, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced.
“I’m going to take this off.” His hands find the hem of my hoodie, and he lifts it carefully. “How you wear this in this damn Nevada heat is beyond me.”
The air on my skin is a lot, and I say so, so he waits until it isn’t. “I’m going to touch your back now.” Broad hands flat against my spine. That’s good. I definitely like that.
“Still okay?” he says, mouth at my shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Tell me the second that changes. Don’t be polite about it.”
“I’m never polite.”
“I know.” I feel him smile against my skin. “Favorite thing about you.”
When his thumb skims the side of my ribs, I flinch, the bad kind, and “wait” comes out sharp, and he stops. Instantly. His hands are still, but he’s not deflated. There’s no sigh or sign of him becoming annoyed like Jay used to.
“Not there,” I say, bracing for the recalculation.
“Noted.” His hands move to my hips, solid, where I can take that kind of sensation. “Thank you for telling me.”
He says it like I told him something useful, and not like it’s an obstacle. Like, stopping him is direction and not friction. The relief goes through me so hard my eyes sting, and I decide I’m done being embarrassed about crying in front of him, because it’s just going to keep happening.
I’ve never been this understood by anyone in my life.
He grabs my hand and walks me to the mattress, telling me before he does it.
“I’m going to walk us over to the mattress. I put on fresh sheets…you know, just in case.”
