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“Liar.”
“I’m not.” But it sounded halfhearted, even to her.
“I’d be more inclined to believe you”—Hunter’s head moved close, until his lips brushed her cheek while he spoke—“if you’d give me a straight answer.”
“It’s okay.” She wet her lips, feeling lightheaded. “It’s okay—you touching me.”
He traced a thumb across the edge of her mouth, and she felt him smile against her cheek. “Just okay?”
“Why?” she said carefully, because teasing felt precarious. “You think you can do better?”
He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, just for a heartbeat, maybe a moment more. His mouth felt warm and dry, very sure. He only drew back an inch, weighing her reaction.
Becca held still, not trusting herself.
Hunter kissed her again, this time lingering just a bit, giving her a chance to respond. Her lips parted, but he kept the kiss chaste, butterfly touches of his mouth against hers.
Her hands wanted to find his chest, to slide beneath his tee shirt and see if his skin felt as warm as she did. These kisses were addictive, simple promises of more with each press of his lips. And she found freedom here, in his restraint. She didn’t have to struggle to find her own boundaries.
He pulled away, but not far, kissing along her jaw. “Better?”
She nodded, pressing her forehead into his neck. He smelled good, like woods and shaving cream and lemonade.
She lifted her head and smiled. “But I think there’s still room for improvement.”
This time when her lips parted, he responded, sliding his hands to her waist to pull her close. Her body softened into his, her br**sts pressed against his chest as his fingers teased at the tiny edge of skin revealed by her tank top. His tongue brushed hers, quick, then slower, drawing a low sound from her throat.
Her hands pulled at his tee shirt, her fingers finding the smooth stretch of skin across his stomach, the muscles that defined his waist.
“Easy, Becca,” he whispered against her lips.
She froze.
“Easy,” he said again. He kissed her cheek, her mouth, her eyes. “There’s plenty of time.”
He kept her so off balance. “For what?”
“For you to trust me.” He caught her hands, kissed her fingertips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he drew back on the couch and pulled her up against him.
And did nothing more than stroke her hair until she fell asleep.
Hunter spent the night.
She fell asleep curled against his chest, warm and secure between his body and the sofa cushions.
And that’s exactly where she woke up, seven hours later.
Hunter’s eyes were still closed, his breathing slow.
Becca started to push herself away, shoving her hair behind her ears. It felt like a tangled mess. She blinked her eyes a few times to orient her contacts. Hunter shifted slightly, his arm tightening to hold her in place. His eyes cracked open. “Hey.”
She froze. “Hey.”
His hand came up to brush hair out of her eyes. “Don’t run.”
Becca flushed. He was too perceptive. “I’m not. I’m gross.” She pushed herself upright, shifting into the corner of the sofa, wishing her cheeks would cool.
