Page 90 of Keep Me Close

“Chey…”

The warning in his voice is mixed with desire.

I unhook it anyway before slipping the silky straps down my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

His eyes flare before darkening. For one suspended second, I stand before him in nothing but a lacy scrap of underwear.

The desire that floods his expression gives me a secret little thrill before I catch the waistband with my thumbs and ease the panties down too, letting the last barrier slide away before stepping out of it.

His hand comes up to rub his jaw. “Damn, Hollywood.”

My skin feels hot all over as I lift the jersey, glance at him one last time, and carefully drag it over my head. The blue fabric slips over my shoulders, breasts, then my stomach until it settles midway down my thighs. The sleeves swallow my hands. His name is stitched across my back, and it almost feels like it’s burning through the material, branding my skin.

I smooth the front of it with my hands before peeking at him through my lashes. “So… what do you think?”

Instead of answering, he just stares. His gaze starts at my bare legs before climbing upward, taking in the jersey and the way it hangs on me. His jaw tightens. It’s the slowest, hottest look I’ve ever gotten from a man. And it’s enough to weaken my knees.

He releases a rough breath before dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “You look…” His voice dies before he tries again. “You look fucking hot.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.” He takes one step toward me and then another. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to look hotter than you do in your leggings and cropped sweaters with your hair in a messy bun and not a hint of makeup. But I was wrong.”

Every single word ignites a firestorm inside me.

He stops close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. “In my jersey and nothing else? You’re sexy as hell.”

My heart stutters as he reaches out and hooks two fingers beneath the hem, brushing the fabric and then my skin. The contact is feather-light but still manages to send heat skittering up my thigh.

His hand glides a little higher before stopping as he allows the fabric to fall back into place. “It’s taking every ounce of self-control not to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the bedroom.”

A tremor slides through me. “Do it.”

I’ve never meant anything more in my life.

The muscle in his jaw tics a mad rhythm. “Chey…”

I step close enough for the front of the jersey to brush against his thighs. “In case you haven’t gotten the hint, McNichols… I want you.”

His eyes close for just a second. When they open again, they’re shades darker.

“Before we take this any further, I want to make sure we’re both on the same page.” He lifts a hand, like he wants to touch me again, then drags it through his hair instead. “I don’t want this to be a knee-jerk reaction to everything that’s happened.”

There it is again.

His restraint on full display.

But this time, I understand it better.

It’s not that he doesn’t want me. It’s that he knows if we take this step, neither of us will be able to pretend it isn’t happening anymore. It becomes real in a way we can’t ignore.

And somehow, knowing that only makes me want him more.

Because he’s not stopping out of indifference.

He’s stopping because this matters.

I matter.