Chapter 8: Upstairs

The door hit his back, and I kept going.

I pushed his sweater up his ribs and dragged it over his head.

He let me.

His chest was warm and hard under my hands, with a thin scatter of dark hair.

A long pale scar ran along his left side.

I put my mouth on it.

"Libby." His voice was a rasp. "Slow down."

"No."

"You'll hurt your hand."

"Then you'd better be careful with it."

I took his wrist and set his hand on my hip, over my scrubs top, and watched his eyes go black.

That was all it took.

His other hand slid under the hem and spread across my bare back.

He walked me backward across the living room until my knees hit the arm of the couch.

I pulled my top off myself.

He looked at me for a long moment in the lamplight.

He looked like a man who had never expected to be allowed.

Then he put his mouth on my collarbone and his hands on my breasts, and the sound I made filled the room.

"Say it again," he said against my skin.

"What?"

"Whatever that was."

I pushed him down onto the couch instead.

He went, laughing under his breath, and I climbed over him with a knee on either side of his hips.

I could feel how hard he was through his jeans.

I rolled against him once, slowly, and his head dropped back against the cushion.

"God," he said. "Libby."

"You said you wouldn't count."

"I'm not counting."

"Then stop thinking so hard."

I opened his belt myself.

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