Page 93 of Rush
"No regrets?"
"No. You?"
"No regrets."
He pulls me closer and I rest my head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong.
"I should make coffee," I say.
"In a minute."
"Rush, it's already past nine."
"Don't care."
"You're going to be late for the clubhouse."
"Let them wait."
I smile against his chest. "Very alpha of you, making the whole club wait because you're too busy cuddling."
"I'm not cuddling."
"You are absolutely cuddling."
"I'm holding you. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Holding sounds more masculine."
I laugh and the sound makes him pull me tighter. "You're ridiculous."
"You like it."
"I tolerate it."
"Liar."
Twenty minutes later, we're in my tiny kitchen. Rush is leaning against the counter in his jeans and nothing else. I'm wearing his shirt because mine is somewhere on the bedroom floor.
It's domestic and quiet and surprisingly comfortable.
I make coffee and hand him a cup. He takes it and pulls me between his legs.
"This is nice," he says.
"What is?"
"This, you, being here."
"It's my flat. Where else would I be?"
His mouth curves. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do."
I take a sip of coffee and watch him over the rim of my cup. He's relaxed in a way I haven't seen before.
