Page 246 of Cross Checked
I opened my eyes.
There she was in my bed, sleepy and tender and impossible, looking at me like she knew exactly how deep I was because she was in it with me.
“Pip,” I warned softly, but even to my own ears, it sounded more like a plea.
“I’m just saying,” she murmured, shifting the smallest amount closer, “if you’re going to want me like that, you should probably be very, very gentle about it.”
My chest pulled tight.
The banter was quiet this morning, softer around the teeth, but it was still her. Still my girl. Still the five-foot-two disaster who could hand me her vulnerability and make it sound like a challenge.
I brushed my lips over hers. “I can be gentle.”
Her brows lifted faintly. “That sounded painful for you to admit.”
“It was brutal.” I kissed her again. “Recovering in real time.”
A sleepy little laugh breathed into my mouth, and that was it. That was the thing that broke me in the best and worst way. I didn’t want her because she was half-naked in my bed, even though that was its own kind of punishment. I wanted her because she could still make me laugh with my heart in my throat. Because she could be bruised and brave and sarcastic before sunrise. Because she trusted me with the parts of herself she tried to turn into jokes before anyone could see how badly they hurt.
I moved my hand slowly, giving her every chance to stop me. Over her waist. Her hip. The outside of her thigh. Not taking. Asking without making her say yes a dozen times like she was fragile, because she wasn’t fragile. She was sore. She was tired. She was mine in the most terrifying, impossible way, and I wanted to deserve the trust in her body as much as I wanted her body itself.
She sighed when my fingers skimmed between her thighs, her eyes fluttering closed.
I froze instantly.
“Too much?”
“No,” she whispered, pressing back into me a fraction. “So sensitive.”
The word went through me like a blade.
Sensitive.
Because of me. Because of us. Because the night had left proof on both of us that couldn’t be laughed off or turned into a neat little rule for her project. My jaw flexed, and I kissed her temple, keeping my touch light, slow, almost reverent.
“Tell me if it hurts or if it’s too much,” I said.
Her eyes opened, and she looked at me over her shoulder with something soft and teasing and deeply unfair. “It’s never too much?”
I huffed a quiet laugh against her skin. “Don’t start.”
“You started.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“You sound uncommitted.”
“Emotionally,” I said, brushing my thumb over her hip. “You forgot emotionally, Pip. Did I break you?”
Her smile trembled, and for one second, I saw the emotion beneath it. All the things neither of us were ready to name in the gray morning light. Then she reached back and slid her fingers into my hair, pulling me down until my mouth found hers again.
This kiss was different.
I touched her slowly while I kissed her, learning what made her melt and what made her inhale too sharply, memorizing every small reaction like it mattered more than breathing. She was warm and soft and tender, and I took my time until her hips began to move in tiny, restless circles against my fingers, until her hand tightened in my hair and the sound she made against my mouth turned needy enough to snap the last clean thread of my self-control.
But I didn’t rush. Not with her like this, when she had handed me something more dangerous than permission.
Trust.
