Page 55 of End Game

And I like it.

“We are,” I say with a soft smile, answering for both of us.

Cami smiles at me in what I take as approval.

Griffin then looks down at her, and his hand moves to her back. Then, I am almost positive he nudges her toward me, and she follows.

She steps forward, and I like the way she has to look up at me when she’s this close. She lifts her hand and then raises her eyebrows in question.

I nod, but I also pull her flush with me as her palms land on my chest.

Finally, it's Friday.

She laces her fingers through mine and leads me down the basement stairs.

I let her have the moment of control, because shortly she’ll have none.

She drops my hand when she sees the new equipment.

I notice the absence immediately. Not because I needed her to keep touching me, but because yesterday I would have been tracking every movement of her hand.

This is progress.

She circles beneath, head tipped back as she studies the bar and straps secured overhead.

It doesn’t take her long to figure out what they’re for.

Stepping in front of her, I halt her from continuing to examine what’s above us, and she looks at me.

“Still green?” I ask with a smile.

“Still green,” she confirms, but her voice has a rasp to it now.

Slowly, my fingers wrap around the hem of her shirt, and as I begin to raise it up, her arms lift instinctively and cooperatively.

My fingers run over the devices on her body. One on her arm. One on her lower abdomen.

They’re always there—or another set is somewhere else on her body. We’ve all learned to work around them without discussing them.

I’ve never asked how she feels about them.

“Do they ever make you self-conscious?” I ask.

“Usually not anymore,” she answers softly. “Not with people I trust not to judge me for it. Do I wish that I didn’t have to wear them or think about them, or have them be some kind of reminder on my naked body when I’m with you or anyone else? Yeah. But I try not to focus on them.”

“I’ve never looked at you and wished any part of you were different,” I assure her.

“I think you’re biased,” she teases.

Reaching behind her, I hold her eyes while I unclasp her bra.

“Well, sweetheart, then we’re all biased.”

She rewards me with a smile.

My thumbs hook in her sweatpants and the band of her underwear. I nudge them down.

Her hand starts toward me automatically, for balance, then stops. She remembered.