Page 65 of Swerve (Boosted Hearts 1)

His plate was in front of him on the breakfast bar, his fork beside it. He hadn’t even taken a bite yet. “I think you’ve forgotten something, Ruby.”

I tilted my head. “Hmm, I don’t think so.” I widened my eyes. “Oh! Sorry!” I knew exactly what he wanted. Instead, I went back to the fridge and grabbed the Parmesan cheese, handed it to him, and tried to walk away again.

He grabbed my wrist and shook his head, dumping the cheese on the counter. “I wasn’t talking about cheese.” His eyes dropped to my mouth.

Zaps of pleasure shot through my belly.

I smiled bright, fighting the urge to cave and climb him like a beanstalk, and went up on my toes—and pecked his cheek. “Hey,” I whispered.

He smiled, no doubt expecting me to go for his mouth next, but I didn’t, which was not easy, and spun, walking away before he could stop me.

I was determined to pull him out of whatever was bothering him. He still kissed me, hugged me, but nothing more, and I was going to push him until he gave in and jumped my bones and spilled his secrets.

I slumped back on the couch and groaned. “God, I ate too much pasta. My shorts are cutting me in half.” I reached down, unsnapped them, and shoved them down my legs, flopping back, arms tucked under my head, ankles crossed. The underwear I’d selected were lace, sheer, and hid nothing. I knew the minute he got an eyeful of my surprise when he growled, and the fork he’d finally picked up clattered to the breakfast bar.

“Ruby,” he choked out.

“Hmm?”

His boots thudded against the hardwood floor again as he moved toward me, then he was there, staring down at me, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t looking where he was looking. Exactly where I wanted him to look.

“You shaved?”

I shivered at the rough edge to his voice and shook my head. “Waxed.” Sliding my fingers down the front, I pushed my underwear down, just a little. “See? Can’t get much smoother than that.” I pulled my hand free and propped it back behind my head.

He didn’t move.

“Um . . . Neco?”

“Yeah?” His voice was so deep, it vibrated right through me.

“You’re blocking the TV.”

His eyes lifted to mine—oh yeah, he was affected—then back down. His hand shot out and without a word, he grabbed the remote and flicked off the TV.

“Hey, I was watching that.”

He still didn’t speak, his big hand dropping to my belly, to the exposed strip of skin there, his fingers rough as they coasted across—then down.

One broad finger dipped below the lace, like mine had, and moved back and forth. My breath hitched when he hooked the top and tugged the elastic down so he could get a better look.

He growled, and that finger dipped lower still, then finally slid directly over the plain black heart inked there.

I held my breath.

“When did you get this?”

It was time, and suddenly I didn’t feel quite so confident.

Shoving aside my nerves, I stared up at him, watching him study the small heart. “On my eighteenth birthday.” I took a steadying breath and carried on. “The one under it . . . on my seventeenth.”

His finger didn’t stop sliding gently over my skin, but his eyes lifted to mine. “Under it?”

“Yeah.” I licked my dry lips.

“You covered it?”

“Mmmhmm.”