Page 120 of Tangled with the Tight End

I pull my hand back gently, as if moving quickly would alert him to the fact that I just touched him in a very not-your-nurse way. I drop my hand between us, gluing it to my thigh.

Declan reaches down and gently lifts my hand away from my leg, wrapping our hands together. He gives a slight, almost imperceptible tug and I move toward him, my face so close I feel the warmth of his breath fanning over my cheeks.

I’m not his nurse right now. And he’s not my patient. He’s just Declan. All the lines sweetly blur as I stare into his intense brown eyes.

“I want to kiss you, Winona.” Declan’s voice is low and needy.

It takes a beat for his words to land.

I nod softly—not because I don’t want to kiss him. Not because I want to wait until another time. I don’t even know if I’m dreaming right now. If I am, I’m not taking my chances. There will be no sudden movements that might wake me—not until after Declan’s lips have met mine.

He runs his hand down my jawline.

“Say something,” he begs me.

“I want you to kiss me,” I say, my voice practically a whisper. “So much.”

And that’s all it takes. I forgot how stealthy and quick he can be, despite his injury. His leg isn’t a part of what’s going on between us. Before I can think another thought, Declan is up on an elbow, looming over me, staring down into my eyes, and his mouth is moving toward mine.

My tongue darts out on instinct, moistening my lips just the slightest. Declan tracks the movement and growls slightly. It’s not a full growl, more of a rumble. Whatever it is, I like it. I want to make him make that noise again and again.

His eyes slowly flick between mine and the sweetest smile grows as he approaches me.

I watch him and then my eyes instinctively drift shut.

I haven’t kissed a man in ages. I’m on the precipice of a freak-out over whether I remember how when Declan’s soft, full lips meet mine in a brush that lingers. My hands lift, wrapping around his neck and twining through his hair. My nails gently scrape along his scalp. He hums into our kiss. His mouth is as skilled as his well-trained body. He kisses me like he’s a man starving, but also like he wants to make this last.

His hand moves to my hair, running down it with one long, careful stroke. Then my arm. He’s trailing a finger down from my shoulder to my wrist and back up again. All this while propping himself on one arm and kissing me like he can’t get enough of me.

My heart flutters and warmth spreads through me. Something so much deeper than our physical connection fills me. I kiss him back for all he is—for the parts of him he only shares with me—for the laughter that’s ours in private moments—for the way he makes me feel wanted and special. I kiss him—Declan—not the pro football player, not the son of a wealthy developer. Just him, the man I’ve come to know and care for so deeply.

Declan pulls back, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingertip traces my hairline and then my jaw while he stares down into my eyes.

“Winona.” He breathes out my name.

“Declan,” I answer him with a playful, carefree laugh that bubbles up from inside me.

He laughs an amused laugh and his eyes crinkle.

I run my hand down his jaw, indulging in the feel of his stubble on my hand.

“You like that?” he asks.

“Mm hmm.”

“Me unshaven?”

“I like both—stubble and clean-shaven,” I tell him. “All of it. All of you.”

He smiles down at me. “I like you, Winona. All of you.”

His eyes grow heavy and seductive.

“Is this your Nike face?” I ask.

“What?”

“You know?” I ask, drawing a line with my finger across his brow, running it over his eyelids, causing each to shut at my approach, dragging my fingertip down to his pouty mouth where he playfully nips at me. “Your Nike face. Like, Hey, beautiful women and all the bros out there, buy these shoes because I’m Declan O’Connell.”