Page 115 of The Clinch
My fingers drift down his throat, over his chest, slowly, feeling every ridge, every warm inch.
“We’ll shower,” he says, low. “Together.”
His thumb drags once along my knuckles, and that tiny touch gets through everywhere.
I step closer and press my lips to his shoulder, tasting him: salt and heat.
Leo sucks in a sharp breath, his arms sliding around my waist. He turns me with quiet control until my back meets the elevator wall. Then his mouth takes mine.
A kiss that wipes the air out of the space. He makes a quiet sound, raw and private, holding me at my waist as if he means to keep me steady.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Instead, I grip the front of his shorts, grazing his firm length, and pull him closer.
The elevator chimes.
We break apart on instinct, breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching. The doors slide open.
I lace my fingers through his and lead him into the hall, my lips swollen and my pulse sprinting. He walks into the apartment behind me and shuts the door with his foot.
Inside, the cool air hits my overheated skin, and I gasp at the relief. August in New York is thick and wet, a steam bath by seven a.m. But Leo’s place is crisp, quiet, and calm.
His chest is bare, sweat catching the light across hard planes of muscle. His damp shirt is already on the floor. He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“Good run,” he says, voice rough at the edges.
“Yeah.” I’m still catching my breath, sports bra sticking to my skin. “The heat is brutal.”
A crooked grin. “I kept up.”
He moves toward me with the same contained focus he wears in the ring. A hand sliding into my damp hair, he backs me to the wall, holding me there because he knows I’m staying. The othergrips my waist, firm enough to feel, gentle enough to leave it my choice.
Need runs up my spine as he kisses me slowly, tasting. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing to mine. “You’re undoing me.”
His lips are salt-warm, urgent, like he’s not going to let this moment slip away. He smells of cedar, clean sweat, and something underneath that is just him.
My palms press to his chest, feeling the hard definition, the rapid beat of his heart. Want gathers low as I grip his face, feeling the rasp of his scruff under my fingers.
“Shower,” I murmur against his mouth.
“Mm-hm.” He doesn’t pull back. His hand slides down my spine and presses me closer.
His tongue brushes my lower lip before he deepens the kiss, slow at first, and then hungry. Heat builds between us, separate from the summer and the run still cooling on my skin. His body is solid against mine, all that strength turned toward me.
When he finally breaks away, his gaze is dark and certain. He leads me through the apartment without a word.
I follow as though this is new. As if I haven’t been doing this for weeks.
It started small. One sleepover after the Cherokee. A toothbrush beside his. A spare T-shirt on the chair. My textbooks stacked on his nightstand because carrying them back and forth got stupid.
Now the bed feels like it belongs to both of us, even though no one has said it out loud.
His bedroom is cool and dim, blackout shades drawn against the morning sun. The low platform bed is made tight, sheets pulled smooth, corners sharp.
Of course he made it before we ran. He can’t stand leaving anything undone. Not his routine. Not his space. Not the things he’s started building me into.
