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“I guess they didn’t have to hire you a voice double for that musical episode.”
I wait for her to realize what she just admitted. What I already know because I heard her TV through the wall last night, and I can see the muted screen now. And ... there it is.
Her horrified gaze darts to the flat screen.
Scrolling across the bottom is#winterfinale #marathon #thepack #eightpack.
She’s in the middle of a current episode. “You’re watching my show?”
“No.” She dives for the remote where she left it on the edge of the bed, lands on her stomach, and clicks off the power, burying her face in the comforter.
I can’t help gravitating into her personal space. I sit on the edge of the mattress next to her, curling my fingers so I don’t reach for her. Touching her is like a reflex. Or an instinct. There’s nothing else I’d rather do. “You’re totally watching my show.”
“No, I’m not.” Her words are muffled.
Visually following the line of waves down her back, I imagine sweeping my fingers through her hair. “You’re three-quarters through the fall season. The musical was three episodes back.”
“Fine.” She rolls over and covers her face with her hands. “I couldn’t sleep. I might’ve watched an episode.”
“An episode?”
She peeks through her fingers. “Or ten.” Which is the number of shades of red she turns. “Can we please, please,pleasenot talk about this.”
I give up on the not touching and lift her hands, brushing her hair off her face. “I wasn’t embarrassed to tell you I read your book.”
“There’s no half-naked guys in my book.” Her voice hits a new level of kill-me-now. “Who wastes their time watching stuff like that?”
“You, apparently.” I laugh, loving the mortified look on her face. Knowing she’s been staring at shirtless Jax—at shirtless me—all night gives my inner caveboy an insane high.
She tries to tumble off the bed, but my legs are in the way of her escape. With a huff, she rolls onto her back and glares at me.
Leaning over, I slide my palms against hers, pressing them to the mattress on either side of her face.
Her breathing takes off. Her eyes lock with mine.
I loosen my grip, so she can push me away if she wants. When she goes still, I take that as a sign she doesn’t want.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
Loving the hell out this tiny tank top. I weave my fingers with hers in a perfect fit. “I owe you something.”
“Owe me what?” Her gaze moves over my face.
Mine strays to her bottom lip. “A better first kiss. If I’d have known it was your first, I would’ve tried harder.”
“There’s better?” She swallows. Then quickly clears her throat. “I mean, we said no kissing.” Her breaths alternate between deep and shallow. Her face alternates between yes and no. Her gaze slides to my mouth.
Escalator Girl. Queen of the mixed signals.
I release her hands to run my thumb over her pouty bottom lip. “Yousaid no kissing.” All I can think about is the kissing. “It’s one kiss.” I’m the worst liar. I’m already addicted to the way she feels. To the way she makesmefeel. I want this. I want her.
“One kiss?” Her eyes glaze over in my favorite look.
I nod. For now.
“Okay.” The slight parting of her lips and her erratic breaths tighten my muscles, heat my blood, call me closer.
Cupping her face, I take the scenic route. Run my nose along her jaw. Skim my lips over her forehead and down her cheek. I have to make this perfect for her. I’m nervous—when I’m never nervous.
