leave. I’m not even asking you to. But ... you should let me stay. You should love me enough to let me choose.”
He sat down, taking my hand in his. “What if you choose wrong?”
“You have to trust that I won’t.” It shouldn’t be such a leap, trusting me. How could you love someone if you couldn’t trust them? I’d made my choice. Now I had to make it the right one. “If I stayed here, would it be so terrible?”
Before he could answer, I pressed my mouth to his, hungry for reassurance. Whatever he said was lost in the kiss, and then I was lost, too, and he was all I had to hold on to. His hands slid underneath my sweater, under my T-shirt, his fingers dipping to the waistband of my jeans, and I whimpered, not sure how to ask for more but wanting it all the same.
The coffeemaker beeped from across the room, and he broke off. “Wait.”
“No.” I slid my arms around his neck, pulling him back to me.
“Mo. Wait. What about your uncle? Your parents?”
I looked around, deliberately. “They aren’t here. I can handle them, and I swear to God if you use them as an excuse to put the brakes on, I will beat you with that fireplace poker.”
He glanced at the poker in question, then turned back to me, eyes crinkling.
“Don’t laugh,” I warned. “I am out of my mind with wanting you, and I am done waiting. Done. Got it?”
And just to wipe the smirk off his face, I dragged off my sweater and T-shirt, the warmth of the stove a solid presence at my back. He swallowed visibly and his hands tightened on my waist. “Got it,” he said, and pulled me down to him, our bodies tangling together, his teeth scraping along my collarbone.
I tugged off his shirt, wanting to kiss away the scars along his back.
“Jeans,” I mumbled while he kissed my throat. “Off.”
“Mo ... slow down.” He paused, his breathing fast and shallow.
“Seriously? Did you not hear the part where I said I was done with waiting?” I shook my head. “You should listen better.”
“So should you. I said slow down, not stop.”
“Why? No one’s expecting me home for hours. We have all the time in the world.”
“Exactly,” he said, eyes serious, so dark they seemed bottomless, and I wanted to forget myself in them. “Why rush?”
“Oh.” I laughed then, and shoved him back onto the couch. His hands roamed over me, even better and hotter than I remembered. In a moment, he’d reversed our positions, leaning over me while I sank into the worn velvet of the couch. I shimmied out of my jeans, and he groaned.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” he said, trapping my hands above my head easily.
“Noted,” I said, trying to wriggle away. “No sleeping.”
“I mean I’m not having sex with you.”
“Really? Because ...” I arched against him and smiled when his eyes drifted shut. “I’m not saying I’m an expert, but that kind of seems like the direction we’re heading.”
He kept my wrists pinned with one hand and held my hip with the other, putting too much distance between us. “How many guys have you slept with?”
“That’s kind of a personal question.”
“Considering how much clothing you’re wearing and where my hands have been, I think we’ve reached the stage where we can ask personal questions.”
I felt a flush spread over my body. “How many girls have you slept with?”
His fingers stilled on my hip. “Enough to know what I’m doing.”
“And you think I don’t?” I yanked a hand free and flipped open the button of his jeans.
He kissed me, mouth open and searching, and I whimpered, trying to press myself closer.
“How many?” he asked again.
I scowled at him. “Why does it matter?”
“None, right?”
I twisted away, wrenching out of his grasp. I might not have had much experience with guys, but this was definitely not how it was supposed to go.
“I told you before, Mo. I don’t want to be the guy you sleep with and then keep a secret.”
“So I should shout it from
He sat down, taking my hand in his. “What if you choose wrong?”
“You have to trust that I won’t.” It shouldn’t be such a leap, trusting me. How could you love someone if you couldn’t trust them? I’d made my choice. Now I had to make it the right one. “If I stayed here, would it be so terrible?”
Before he could answer, I pressed my mouth to his, hungry for reassurance. Whatever he said was lost in the kiss, and then I was lost, too, and he was all I had to hold on to. His hands slid underneath my sweater, under my T-shirt, his fingers dipping to the waistband of my jeans, and I whimpered, not sure how to ask for more but wanting it all the same.
The coffeemaker beeped from across the room, and he broke off. “Wait.”
“No.” I slid my arms around his neck, pulling him back to me.
“Mo. Wait. What about your uncle? Your parents?”
I looked around, deliberately. “They aren’t here. I can handle them, and I swear to God if you use them as an excuse to put the brakes on, I will beat you with that fireplace poker.”
He glanced at the poker in question, then turned back to me, eyes crinkling.
“Don’t laugh,” I warned. “I am out of my mind with wanting you, and I am done waiting. Done. Got it?”
And just to wipe the smirk off his face, I dragged off my sweater and T-shirt, the warmth of the stove a solid presence at my back. He swallowed visibly and his hands tightened on my waist. “Got it,” he said, and pulled me down to him, our bodies tangling together, his teeth scraping along my collarbone.
I tugged off his shirt, wanting to kiss away the scars along his back.
“Jeans,” I mumbled while he kissed my throat. “Off.”
“Mo ... slow down.” He paused, his breathing fast and shallow.
“Seriously? Did you not hear the part where I said I was done with waiting?” I shook my head. “You should listen better.”
“So should you. I said slow down, not stop.”
“Why? No one’s expecting me home for hours. We have all the time in the world.”
“Exactly,” he said, eyes serious, so dark they seemed bottomless, and I wanted to forget myself in them. “Why rush?”
“Oh.” I laughed then, and shoved him back onto the couch. His hands roamed over me, even better and hotter than I remembered. In a moment, he’d reversed our positions, leaning over me while I sank into the worn velvet of the couch. I shimmied out of my jeans, and he groaned.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” he said, trapping my hands above my head easily.
“Noted,” I said, trying to wriggle away. “No sleeping.”
“I mean I’m not having sex with you.”
“Really? Because ...” I arched against him and smiled when his eyes drifted shut. “I’m not saying I’m an expert, but that kind of seems like the direction we’re heading.”
He kept my wrists pinned with one hand and held my hip with the other, putting too much distance between us. “How many guys have you slept with?”
“That’s kind of a personal question.”
“Considering how much clothing you’re wearing and where my hands have been, I think we’ve reached the stage where we can ask personal questions.”
I felt a flush spread over my body. “How many girls have you slept with?”
His fingers stilled on my hip. “Enough to know what I’m doing.”
“And you think I don’t?” I yanked a hand free and flipped open the button of his jeans.
He kissed me, mouth open and searching, and I whimpered, trying to press myself closer.
“How many?” he asked again.
I scowled at him. “Why does it matter?”
“None, right?”
I twisted away, wrenching out of his grasp. I might not have had much experience with guys, but this was definitely not how it was supposed to go.
“I told you before, Mo. I don’t want to be the guy you sleep with and then keep a secret.”
“So I should shout it from
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