Page 140 of The Clinch
That gets a real smile out of her. Small. Quick. Devastating. Then she reaches for my hand. Her fingers settle over mine.
“Any reason you’re suddenly breathing like that?”
I hold her gaze. “You’re standing between my knees, Flash.”
She knows exactly what I meant and doesn’t step back.
“You’re injured. Try to keep the ego out of it.”
“My ego’s not the problem.”
“No?”
“No.”
I catch the small jump in her throat, and then the moment she realizes I saw it.
She adjusts the ice pack against my ribs, her palm steady through the towel, and my body reacts before my brain catches up—a hard pull low in my stomach.
Her eyes lift to mine.
“You still with me?” she asks, voice lower than it was a second ago.
“Still here.”
Her mouth tilts. Then, almost under her breath, she says, “It’s normal to fuss over your boyfriend when he comes home looking like this.”
The word lands.
Boyfriend.
My hand tightens on the towel hard enough to matter.
She hears it a second after I do. I watch the awareness move across her face. But she lets it stay.
“Hold still,” she says softly.
That does me in harder than the whole day’s work. I set the ice pack down on the counter.
“Leo,” she says, all warning and question.
I slide one hand to her waist. Slow enough to give her time. Firm enough that she feels what I’m asking for.
“I like the sound of that,” I rasp. “Say it again.”
My hand spans the small of her back, under my shirt. Warm skin. Barely there fabric. Her fitting into my grip like my body solved her before my head did.
Her lips part.
“Boyfriend,” she says softly. Then, “My boyfriend.”
My hands slide up her thighs and settle at her hips, the fabric there almost nothing under my palms.
My thumb skims the edge of the wing tattoo, and that one touch gets through.
“Your ribs?—”
“Will still be bruised.”
