Page 83 of Sterling Stone

I’m grateful the conversation shifted to something lighter. Neither of our lives has been easy and that could make us bitter. Instead, we try to be better people because of it.

After dinner, she hip checks me out of the way by the sink, insisting that she do the dishes. “You cooked. I clean.”

The moment feels so domestic, so right, and I worry I’m getting ahead of myself.

While we’ve exchanged a lot about our pasts, the present Taxi is the woman I want to discover more about.

“Stay here tonight,” I blurt, when the clean dishes are put away, and the wine bottle is empty. I tug her to me like I did earlier, pulling her between my spread thighs as I lean against the kitchen island. I like how easily she fits against me. How we click together. I run my hands over her hips and up her sides. “I just want you to stay a little while longer.”

The invitation might have an even deeper connotation.

While I’ve heard her tell Simon she’s staying, to take care of Trudy in the immediate future, there’s no guarantee Taxi is staying for the long haul. I’d never want to hold her back. I’ve already been in that position once before.

Still, a deep-buried part of me wants her to stay. Wants her to know me better as well. The broken pieces I carry, because she’s the first person I’ve let see them, and she isn’t judging me for them.

Taxi leans into me again, tipping up on her toes to kiss me. Her lips are warm and soft, and she tastes like red wine and brightness. An array of colors I hadn’t known I needed in my life.

“Plus,” I mutter against her lips. “I have a bigger bed.”

I don’t have a problem sleeping at Trudy’s, but I did feel out of sorts after what happened last night, and that it happened on Trudy’s bed.

I want Taxi in mine, and I haven’t ever had a woman here.

With Vale and Hudson in the house, bringing someone home felt like a monumental act, and I’d never had someone so large, so important, so consuming that I’d wanted to bring here.

Until now.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I add, knowing it’s the truth. I’m happy to hold her and kiss her and nothing more. I’m not interested in pressuring her.

“What if I have things I want to do?” she hums, running her hands over my shoulders and down to my elbows then back up my biceps.

My body shivers, desire rippling through me in a way I can’t recall ever happening. But it isn’t the anticipation as much as her touch. I haven’t been touched like this in so long, I almost feel deprived.

Her hands caress and her fingers tickle, causing another tingle to run up my spine.

When her fingers brush near the gauze on my arm again, she glances down at the bandage. Her brows pinch. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

Her concern for me, over what I consider a minor scratch, also endears her to me. Taxi’s concern for others is a common trait. The way she has explained immersing herself in communities and areas where she paints. She cares about others.

But that bone-deep concern, the one that comes from some place buried within her, is something I think she only shares with those she loves. Not saying she loves me, but the concerned expression on her face only comes from getting close to her. Her allowing someone to be close to her.

“I don’t like that you were hurt on the job,” she adds.

I press a kiss to her forehead and reassure her. “I’ll be fine.” Minor injuries like this one are part of the job. And my job is the last thing I want to think about tonight.

My hands glide over her backside again, and I pick her up, startling her by the move. The action pulls at the stitches, but I want this woman in my arms.

Instantly, she wraps her legs around me and circles her arms around my neck, trying to take the pressure off my arm.

“Let me see that bigger bed,” she whispers, before kissing me again.

I carry her to my room, where we fall awkwardly onto the king-sized mattress.

Taxi’s been picking on me for my love of the color beige, and I anticipate her having something to say about my room. A simple slatted headboard, the mattress on a low platform. Plaid green comforter. A matching set of nightstands and a single upright dresser.

But Taxi doesn’t look around the room. Her eyes stay locked on mine as I perch up on my arm and run my hand down her body. Over the denim overalls that shouldn’t look so enticing on a woman, and yet do. The coverup like a shield, constantly making me wonder what lies beneath the baggy clothing. Who is the woman inside the loose denim?

While I unhook one clasp, Taxi unsnaps the other. Then I cover her hand.