Page 137

“No?”

“No.” I run my thumb along his temple. “You’re still the same idiot I liked yesterday.”

“Yeah?” His usual cockiness is gone, and there’s real vulnerability in the question instead.

“Yeah,” I assure him.

I use my finger to tilt his chin up until he looks at me, then lean down and kiss him.

It's meant to be quick, just a soft press of my mouth to his, but Wyatt's hand comes up to the back of my neck before I can straighten. His fingers curl into the hair at my nape, holding me there, and the kiss changes. Deepens.

His thumb traces the line of my throat, and I make a sound against his lips that I didn't plan to make.

He draws it out, slow and deliberate, his mouth moving against mine like he's learning me all over again. When he finally lets me pull back, my breath comes shallow, uneven.

"Come on," he says, voice low.

Pickles doesn't follow us when Wyatt stands and pulls me behind him. The dog stays curled on the couch, one ear flicking in our direction as we head for the bedroom, but he doesn't even bother lifting his head.

Smart dog.

The bedroom is dim, the only light from the hallway spilling through the door we left cracked.

Wyatt turns to face me, and his hands find my hips, walking me backward until my knees hit the edge of the mattress. His eyes hold mine in the half-dark, and there's something in them, something raw and unguarded that makes my chest tighten.

"You know how lucky I am?" he says.

His thumbs press into the soft skin just above my waistband, and I watch his jaw work, like he's chewing on words he can't quite get out.

I shake my head, because I don't know what he means, not really, and because my throat feels too tight to speak.

He sits me down on the bed, and I sink into the mattress, looking up at him.

He pulls his shirt over his head, and the dim light catches the planes of his chest. My hands find his stomach without me telling them to, palms flat against the warm skin, feeling the muscle flex under my touch.

"Every damn day," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. He clears his throat. "Every day I think about how lucky I am to have you."

I swallow hard.

My fingers curl against his abdomen, and I lean forward, pressing my forehead to his chest. His scent makes something in my stomach flip every single time.

His hand comes to the back of my head again, cradling it. I feel his breath shudder through his ribs.

"Wyatt—"

"Just let me—" He exhales. "Let me show you."

He tips me back onto the mattress, and I go willingly.

He follows me down, one knee pressed between my thighs, his weight braced on his forearms.

His mouth finds my jaw, my neck, the hollow of my throat. Each press of his lips is slow, intentional, like he's mapping every inch of me and memorizing it.

I tug at the hem of my shirt, and he helps me pull it off, tossing it somewhere behind him.

The cool air hits my skin, and then his warmth covers me, his chest pressing against mine, skin to skin. I arch into him, and he groans against my neck, the vibration traveling through my whole body.

"You feel so good," he murmurs against my collarbone. His hand slides down my side, fingers hooking into my waistband. "Every time I touch you, I think I'm going to lose my mind."