Page 44 of Cruz

While I sit in silence, understanding completely what Cruz meant about his thoughts and words jamming and piling until nothing comes out at all, Cruz hammers back his tea like it’s not scorching. He doesn’t stare me down. He doesn’t press. He leaves me with my thoughts and my quiet discomfort.

If I don’t answer him, will he just thank me for dinner and leave?

I hope so.

I might also die if he does.

When he’s finished, Cruz stands and takes his dishes to the sink. His limp, even with that brace, or maybe because of the brace, is noticeable. My leg hurts in sympathy for him. I paste my eyes on his back, watching every single movement while a thousand thoughts clash in my head. He wants me, he’s pretty much come out and said it. So why can’t I just tell him I feel the same way? What the hell is wrong with me?

Life. That’s what’s wrong. I know that no matter how good things seem at the start, how interesting someone is, how kind and how perfect it all seems, that in the end, it usually devolves into straight bullshit. Even if the moment or the ride or the journey is nice, I’m not in a position to enjoy any of that. Sort of. Not really. That’s what I keep telling myself, but is it true?

My temples are starting to pound and my head aches from too much thinking. “You know what I truly want?”

Cruz turns, hand on the counter like he needs it to support himself. His eyes hold a question. I wish I hadn’t said anything, but plucking words out of the air and shoving them back down isn’t something I can magically do.

“You want your life back before you met me. You want the problems you thought were annoying. They seem trivial now, and you wish that they didn’t. You wish that you had things sorted, and that everything you thought was true could be true again.”

Holy shit, if that’s not the mic drop moment of all mic drop moments.

How can he stand there and read my thoughts like that? It’s past scary and into a different realm entirely.

“Or not.” His voice deepens into gravel. “That could be me and I’m projecting.”

He takes a step away from the counter, but it’s with his bad knee. I’m already watching him carefully, so that when he stumbles, I shoot out of my chair and race across the kitchen to him. I get to him before he falls. I see the pain and shock stamped into his face, the bright burst in his eyes, and then my arms are wrapped around him. It’s a silly thing to do, given that he’s massive and I’m not. There’s no way I can support him.

We both tumble to the ground. Cruz twists, his arms wrapped around me, so that he lands first, cushioning the blow. I don’t hit the floor, but I do hit… all of him. I’m spread out along the length of him, my legs tangled with his, our chests mashed together, his arms locked behind my back.

“Oh my god!” I don’t mean to say that out loud, and I don’t mean to let out the little squeak when I realize that our bodies are perfectly aligned for me to feel the hard bulge in his jeans pressing against my stomach.

I try to wriggle free and his arms tighten like he’s scared that he’s hurt, or maybe because he’s hurt and he’s trying to get himself upright. My body is locked tight with his, but from the hips down I have more leverage. When I wriggle, the only thing I do is cause more friction against that bulge.

Suddenly my mouth is dry and my heartbeat is hammering—not just in my chest. I can feel it beating brutally down in my groin. I’m overheated and I know that I’m wet. Thank god for the barrier of denim between us. My jeans and his.

Cruz’s arms give way a little and he lets me shove up against his chest. I plant one hand on his shoulder. I should get off of him and try to help him up, but instead I freeze and stare down stupidly at his face. He’s a masterpiece. So close. All I’d have to do is inch forward and lean in and I could cup his hard jawline and kiss his lips. I could taste him again. Thoroughly. The kitchen light illuminates the lighter strands in all the dark of his hair. It’s an illusion. There are no natural highlights. We’re edging into winter. It’s not a trick of the light that Cruz’s lips appear so full and gorgeous. I love the slight bow of the top.

His cock throbs beneath me. It’s still trapped against my stomach. I’m all heat and wild animal impulses. I want to grind myself along the hard length of him. I want to drive us both mad. All the fear and anger at the fear, all the confusion and the last of my resistance flee, and I’m left stripped down to the bare facts that Cruz is Cruz and I’m me. There’s this tense, blistering attraction between us that we can’t do anything about, but it doesn’t change the fact that I keep thinking about him, keep wanting him, and that I’m on top of him right now.

“Sorry,” he breathes, so quiet, tone gone to buttery soft velvet.

That one word undoes what little control I have left. I don’t push his hand away when his fingers trickle down my back in a gentle caress. I’m sure he’s checking to be certain that I’m not hurt from the fall.

This close, his lashes are so thick and dark. His eyes are so beautiful, steel gray, ringed around his blown-out pupils. I watch him blink, lashes fluttering up and down. What would they feel like fluttering against my cheek? My neck? My nose?

The longer I focus on him, likely a flushed, panting, very obviously attracted wreck myself, the pinker his cheeks get.

I’m not imagining it. The color is real. It’s adorable.

“Are you hurt?” I push up a little, one hand braced on his shoulder. My other hand shouldn’t reach out and caress his cheek, but it does. Did he shave right before coming over here? His skin is so smooth.

He shudders beneath me. “No.”

“Your knee…”

“Sometimes gives out. I’m fine. I can get up.”

“Okay.” I don’t move. Neither does he.

I’m the one who bends over him, who lowers my face to his until my breath skates across his lips. He stares back at me, unblinking, confusion and longing burning in his eyes. “What about all that stuff you said? The kiss conditions?”