Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Silence swells, then thins. The moths keep their idiot beat. The grill pops a warning. I glance back and flip the steaks before they cross from seared to ruined. They aren’t medium rare tonight, but they will still be good. My hands are steady. My pulse is not.
Kristen’s breath comes out on a shudder. I turn to her slow, because even a good fight leaves tremors, and I don’t want to spook her now that the adrenaline’s giving up.
She’s staring at the spot where his taillights were, jaw set, cheeks high with color. Her hands shake once at her sides, then stop. She’s getting herself under control.
I swallow. There’s a particular kind of heat that comes from watching someone you care about light up and refuse to burn. It’s not lust, but it’s a turn on. It’s respect wired into wanting.
“You good?” I ask, because it’s the only question that matters.
She drags her gaze to me. The eyes that meet mine are clear. “Yeah,” she says, voice rough like she had been yelling. She didn’t. The emotion was being released. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Come here,” I offers, not as a command.
She steps in. I catch her by the hip with one hand, hook the other behind her neck, and kiss her forehead once because I can’t not. She exhales into my shirt and then laughs—this small, disbelieving sound that turns into something like joy.
“What?”
“I told him off,” she states, eyes wide like she surprised herself. “I told him off and you didn’t have to do it for me.” She waves at my fists.
“I would’ve,” I tell her the truth. “But I prefer this version. Watching you draw the line.”
Her grin turns sly. “You looked like you wanted to hit him.”
“I always want to hit him.” I flip the steaks again because the grill doesn’t care about our conversations. “Not worth the cleanup.”
She looks at the grill, then at me, then back at the driveway where ghosts aren’t allowed to park anymore. Something sets in her shoulders. She straightens. “I’m hungry.”
“Emotions burn calories,” I share nonchalantly.
“So do other things,” she winks then she snorts, pushes my shoulder once, light.
“Help me carry,” I add, and she does—first carrying her wine and my beer then inside she gets the plates set up. We work the way we’ve learned: efficient, easy. The door stays open because the night can behave itself now that it’s been told who owns this porch.
We eat with ease and windows open. The room is still humming from the argument, but it’s a good hum, like electricity running where it’s supposed to. She bites into a bite of the steak and closes her eyes on a moan of satisfaction.
“Still boxed wine,” I remind, nodding at her glass. “You good with that?”
“It tastes like victory.” She lifts it and clinks mine glass beer bottle. “To grilled cheese and telling the truth.”
“Steaks,” I correct. “We upgrade when the occasion demands.”
She laughs, shakes her head, then sobers. “Thank you.”
“For what.”
“For not… stepping in when I didn’t need you to.” She worries the edge of the napkin with her thumb. “For wanting to, but not taking it from me.”
“I wanted to rearrange his jaw,” I admit.
“I know.” She smiles into her plate. “I could sense it.”
“I also wanted to see you choose your own weapon.”
“And I did.”
“You did.” I take a pull of beer. “Proud of you.”
Her eyes flash wet for a second. She blinks it away and eats. When we’re done, we stack plates. I wash. She dries. Small rituals. Their own winning ceremony.
When the kitchen’s quiet again, she leans against the counter, crosses her ankles, and studies me like I’m something she just found in a tide pool and wants to keep.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re turned on,” she acknowledges, not a question, and I feel it like she pressed a hand to my cock and read my pulse out loud.
“Yeah,” I admit, because I’m not the man to lie. “Watching you stand up? That’s a thing.”
Her mouth goes sly again, soft curves sharpening. “Good.”
I tilt my head. “You turned on?”
“A little.” She lifts a shoulder then gives me a sly smile. “A lot.”
We hold there, in the charged space where choice lives. I feel the old grooves in me—the ones that say reach, take, make it into heat because that’s what you know. I ignore them. I step in without closing the last inch. Her breath brushes my throat. My hands find the counter on either side of her hips, not touching her yet, caging without trapping.
“You want me to kiss you?” I ask, because there’s a difference between momentum and consent, and I like the second one better.
“Yes,” she says, clear as a bell.
So I do. Slow at first, because I like a build. Her hands skate under my shirt at the small of my back, fingers hot as the grill had been, tugging me in. I pin her gently to the counter, keeping enough space for air because breathing is important. Her mouth opens on a sigh that sounds like now and I give it to her.