Page 60 of Rock Me

He leans in and his face is barely inches from mine. My jaw stops moving, as does every part of me, and I hold my breath.

I don't know what's happening, but I can't think right now.

I can just wait.

Please kiss me, my brain is flashing in neon lights, but all I see is his face. His rugged, handsome, impossibly chiseled, sexy face right in front of mine.

He leans in, that last few inches, and I feel the tip of his tongue brush against my top lip. So lightly, I think I might be imagining it.

I feel something catch in my throat.

And it might be a moan.

He pulls away just far enough so that I can see his whole face and he's grinning.

"Tastes good," he says, "just like I thought it would. I mean, I’ve only been thinking about my tongue running along your lips since we got interrupted last night." He ends with a wink and I think that if a woman could climax from a wink alone, it would be me, in this moment.

Then he leans back and spoons soup into his mouth, like nothing just happened.

I sit there, frozen, not sure how to react.

What just happened?

It wasn't a kiss. But it's wasn't not a kiss.

He licked my lip! That usually comes after a kiss. How do you know you HAVEN’T kissed before? My brain presses. Aw, fuck.

This is going to be more complicated than I thought.

The sound of a fork clattering to the ground makes me force myself to focus on what's going on outside of my brain. Jez reaches over reaching under the coffee table, and then flinches and cusses under his breath.

"I got it, don’t worry," I say, and reach under the table, feeling for the fork and placing it on the edge of the table.

"Sorry. Didn’t mean to swear," he says, and there's darkness flooding his eyes that makes my heart clench for him. He's obviously still in a lot of pain. And I'm not sure how far along he is in his recovery, but the frustration is so apparent. What a pair we make. I wonder if I offered him the chance to lose some of his memory and yet have full control of his hands, if he would take it.

I feel like I'd make that trade in a second, but I guess the grass is greener on the other side of the hospital bed.

"Hey, eat up, or it'll get cold,” I nudge him, with the back of my spoon. He sighs and nods and takes the spoon from me, and I try not to let him catch me watching him.

"I'm... I'm still working on it. Sometimes it's okay, and sometimes, it just gives way completely. Gripping is still a little hard, probably have to hold off on the chopsticks for a bit."

"No shame there. I could have use of a hundred hands and still not be able to pick up a single egg roll with chopsticks."

"Well, you know what IS easy to pick up and eat?" he asks, relaxing a little, and I can read the cheekiness in his eyes enough to know what's coming.

"If you say ‘falafel,’ I'm not going to give you even a single bite of that tiramisu."

"Hey, that's mean. What are you, a physiotherapist?" He shudders and his hand comes up to rub his wrist unconsciously.

"Wow, that's random," I mumble around a mouthful of salad.

"You've obviously not had the pleasure of meeting the resident torture expert on the staff here," his nose crinkling as he says it.

"I mean, who decides, ‘you know what? I'd like to cause mortal pain to people all day, every day, and get paid for it.’"

"Well, it's not what I would've chosen, but hey, guess some people have a knack for it."

"What would you have chosen, I mean, forgive me, but surely you didn't spend your childhood thinking, you know what? I want to work in a takeout place my whole life."