Reborn to Love Mr. Right novel · Chapter 15 of 24

Chapter 15: Terrible Coffee

The bookshop was closing when we got there, and the man behind the counter raised his eyebrows at our hands.

"Dictionary girl," he said.

"Evening," Wyatt said, and kept walking.

He didn't let go of me on the stairs.

He didn't let go when he unlocked his door, either, and had to do it left-handed and swear at the key.

The room was full of low gold light from the window.

The three books from Saturday were back on the shelf, lined up very neatly.

He shut the door and leaned on it.

For a moment neither of us did anything.

I was still in the cream blouse and gray skirt I'd worn to be judged in.

He was in his white shirt, his jacket hanging off two fingers, his tie long gone.

"Before anything," he said.

"Here it comes."

"I mean it, Annabel."

He dropped the jacket on the rowing machine.

"I can't promise you anything past commencement morning. I don't know what I'm going to be past it."

"I don't know if I can do this and still keep a clear head about that lot."

"I'm not asking you to promise," I said.

"You should be."

"Last time I got a promise on one knee in front of three hundred people," I said. "I'll take the honest version."

He laughed under his breath, unwilling.

"I'm not asking for the rest of your life," I said. "I'm asking for tonight."

"And I'm asking you to stop standing by the door like you might bolt."

"I live here."

"Then come in."

He crossed the room.

He didn't kiss me right away.

He stood very close and looked at me, at my mouth, at the beauty mark, at the pearl in my ear.

He was checking the list one more time.

"If you're doing this because you owe me," he said, "I'll know. And I won't survive it."

I took his hand and put it flat on my chest, over my heart, the way I'd put mine on his in the rain.

"Does that feel like owing?"

It was going like I'd run there.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the careful man was gone.

His hand stayed over my heart.

I reached up and started on the first button of his shirt.

"My turn," I said.

He didn't move.

He let me do it, watching my fingers, breathing through his nose.

I worked down the row while the light went from gold to something deeper.

Each button gave with a small sound.

His chest rose under my knuckles.

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall.

The scar through his eyebrow was a white line in the darkening room.

His chest was broad from the oars, a dusting of dark hair, his stomach flat.

I put both hands on him.

He made a sound low in his throat, like I'd hurt him, and his stomach jumped under my palm.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said.

"Then don't stop me now."

I got his belt open and pulled him toward the bed by it.

He came, but halfway across the room he changed the game.

He turned us so I was walking backward, his hands on my waist, his mouth finally on mine.

I fisted my hand in his hair and held his mouth on mine.

This time I wasn't letting him take one step back.

This was hunger, his tongue in my mouth, his teeth on my lower lip, his hand coming up to cup the back of my head.

My legs hit the edge of the bed and I sat down hard.

He went to his knees in front of me.

"Look at me," he said.

His voice was rough as sand.

I looked.

He pushed my skirt up my thighs, slow, watching the skin come bare.

"Wyatt."

He bent his head and kissed the inside of my knee.

My legs fell open on their own.

He made a sound of approval against my skin.

"You're already wet," he said.

"I can smell you."

I wanted to close my legs, out of some old instinct, but he put his wide hands on my thighs and held them open.

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