Page 150 of The Lies We Play

My hand slides along her side, over warm skin, slow enough that she can stop me and sure enough that she knows I want to keep going. Her stomach pulls in under my palm. Her fingers dig into my shoulders. I kiss the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the place below her ear that makes her inhale like she is trying not to say my name.

“Creed,” she says anyway.

I stop.

She opens her eyes, annoyed instantly. “Why did you stop?”

“Because you said my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I should check on you.”

Her expression changes.

Tender first, then wicked.

“Or like you should keep going.”

My entire body reacts.

I let my forehead drop to her collarbone for one second.

“You’re dangerous.”

“I’m academically gifted.”

“That doesn't apply here.”

“It applies everywhere.”

I kiss the skin above the edge of her bra, and the argument leaves her on a breath. Her hand slides into my hair again, not pulling, just holding, and the sweetness of it nearly does more damage than the heat.

Because this is Liv, who reads when she’s nervous. Liv, who stole my sweatshirt and my quiet. It adds depth. It makes every kiss feel like a promise none of us is reckless enough to say yet.

I lift my head.

She watches me with flushed cheeks and parted lips.

“What?” she whispers.

I brush my thumb along the side of her face.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes soften.

I slide my hand up over the line of her ribcage, and I feel every rib beneath my palm, each one fragile and real under warm skin.

That’s what gets me.

Not the bra. Not the dark mesh barely pretending to cover her. Not the way the clasp gives the second I pinch it, like the whole damn world has been waiting for my fingers to make one simple choice.

It’s the reality of her.