Page 317 of Ruthless Court

Still careful.

But deeper somehow.

Not because of what our mouths are doing.

Because I know her now.

I know why she runs.

Why she watches people so closely.

Why being wanted scares her almost as much as being overlooked.

And she knows me.

Not Kane Haverhill on television.

Not the point guard.

Not the future contract.

The kid who couldn’t tie his shoes.

The boy on the cracked court trying to find one place where he was good enough.

She knows him.

And she’s kissing him.

Then she moves.

Her lips part against mine, teasing—pulling in just enough to make my breath catch, then easing back so the loss of her feels like a physical ache. She nips the full curve of my lower lip, soft and deliberate, and a low sound rumbles in my throat before I can stop it.

She smiles against my mouth.

Then her tongue slides against mine—first.

Before I can deepen it.

Before I can take.

The little librarian is phenomenal.

She kisses like she already knows every place that will undo me. Slow, then deeper, then teasing again, drawing me after her until I’m chasing every soft, clever stroke of her tongue. Her hands slide up into my hair, fingers twining against the nape of my neck, holding me exactly where she wants me.

A breathy little moan slips from her throat when I answer, and the sound goes straight through me.

Who knew the sexy little librarian was actually real?

My hand slides from her cheek into her hair, cradling the back of her head as she melts against me. No rush. I don’t need one. There’s nowhere else I want to get.

Her mouth moves against mine, tentative at first, then certain.

I feel the exact moment she stops thinking.

Her shoulders loosen.

She leans into me completely, soft and warm and smelling like almonds and jasmine, and I understand something I’ve spent most of my life getting wrong.