Page 336 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Next his bulletproof vest.

When he’s standing in my flat in nothing but his unbuttoned pants with a delicious section of happy trail on display, I have no qualms about appreciating the view.

Oh. My.

Sure we’ve already seen each other naked, but there’s something different about watching someone undress when the taste of their kiss is still on your lips. There’s a sensuality to it, an intimacy I’m not used to, so I take the time to admire him. His hard lines and tan edges. His broad shoulders and cut biceps.

With his eyes on mine and a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, Grant pushes his uniform pants down and then bends over to pick them up, giving me a very fine view of his boxer-brief clad ass when he does. So he’s in my apartment, in nothing but his underwear, fresh out of that hot uniform, and he seriously thinks I’m going to be caring about food right now?

“Grant?”

He looks over to me and stands to full height, every fabulous pack of the six he has rippling for added effect. “What?” he asks with feigned innocence. The man knows exactly what he’s doing as he makes a show of folding his uniform in some perfectionist way. Then he grabs the clump he dropped on the couch, which I now know are clothes.

“Food?”

“Yeah.” He slips a T-shirt over his head—some Back the Blue competition—and then pulls on his jeans. “I’m starving.” His grin appears again as he lifts his eyebrows while my tongue licks out to wet my lips. “You ready?”

“Yes.” But I’m starving for a whole hell of a lot more than food.

“Well, Mr. Malone, no one can say you don’t know how to charm the pants off a girl when you take her on a date.” I take a bite of what’s left of my French fries as I push against the sand, making my swing rock gently back and forth like his is.

He glances over to me, eyebrows narrowing as he finishes his own bite of hamburger. “Take-out and the park isn’t where I normally take a lady on a date.” My back is up immediately, offended by his response. He notices, too. “They’re your rules, Emerson.”

Those words snap me from the haze of my burgeoning temper. Me and my damn rule about no dates. Can’t be mad at the man for listening to me, or for pushing my buttons to get me to realize how dumb said rules are.

“They are,” I murmur as I toss the empty fry container into the open bag at our feet before scooting back onto my swing and beginning to pump my legs. Anything to get out the frustration at myself for being upset by his comment when it was my doing.

I lean my head back, close my eyes, tighten my hands on the chains as I swing higher and higher. The rush of the air against my cheeks, the feel of my hair flying behind me . . . there is something about being on a swing that’s liberating. I’m under my own power. I’m the one who controls how high or fast I go.

There is no Travis and his to-do lists. There is no dread every time the phone rings over what Chris needs now or what proposition he has for me to assure that I’ll get approved. There are no thoughts at all.

It’s just the wind, and the effort, and it’s just . . . juvenile.

“You can’t outswing me, Reeves,” Grant says beside me, prompting me to look to my left and see that we are swinging in unison, side by side.

I pump harder, for some reason needing to beat him, needing this release I don’t understand.

Our laughter fills the empty park as we race each other. I’m so high now that as I reach the peak of the swing, the rubber seat beneath me falls lax for a second.

I’m not sure how long we race each other or if Grant willingly lets me win, but by the time we stop trying, I’m winded and my cheeks hurt from laughing so hard.

We slowly allow the pendulum of our swings to slow until our shoes are dragging ever so lightly on the sand beneath our feet. And when we come to a complete stop, I rest my head against my hand still holding on to the chain and look over to him.

His hair is mussed, and his eyes are as alive as his smile, but there is something else there that I wait for.

“You want to know why I brought you here?”

“Why?”

“Because the swing set was the last place I remember you before you weren’t happy anymore.”

My lips part as I stare at him, all the vigor we just used to beat each other gone. I think of that day. Of swinging with him on the playground. Of lining up after recess. Of the intercom call. Of telling him I hate him and that I never wanted to see him again.

My throat’s dry, and I’m not sure whether it’s because of the exertion or because of what he just said. The one thing I know for sure is that it’s the first time that I don’t want to run away when he brings up the past.

His reason is actually very sweet. And painful.

And just as quickly, the feeling of betrayal, I don’t expect or know how to handle, comes back with a vengeance