Page 106 of Hard to Judge

He jerks upright and adjusts his tie. “I bought tickets for Friday’s game against the Blackhawks.”

I don’t care about hockey tickets. I care about him.

Instead of acknowledging his words, I march over to his side of the desk, yank his chair back, and climb onto his lap.

The springs groan under our combined weight.

My knees jam between the armrests and his thighs. I rest my ass on his quads and pull him to my chest.

He comes willingly with a shudder.

I pluck the satin tie from his hair, then plow my right hand into his thick strands, holding him to me.

We stay like that until my legs lose feeling, and then course with stabbing tingles. Still, I don’t move. I breathe him in and hold him close.

“I’m scared,” Hota rasps.

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to lose you.” He buries his face in my neck and bites down hard.

I swallow down the pain, loving the mark he’ll leave.

“Hota, you couldn’t lose me if you tried.” I pull his face back until he finally looks at me. “There’s nothing you could do and no place you could go that will keep me from you.”

Tears glimmer in his eyes, but he doesn’t shed them. Instead, he smiles. “Sounds stalkerish.”

“Good. I am obsessed with you.” I kiss his forehead. “Go on a date with me.”

“Is that how you ask people out on dates? Demand?” His perfect mouth quirks.

“I don’t ask people on dates or even demand it of them. Not people. Only you and Hailey.”

“Okay.” He shrugs.

“Okay? Notyes, I’d love tooroh, I can’t wait.” I scoff.

“Take it or leave it.” Another shrug.

My gaze narrows on his dark eyes. “I take you.”

The laugh that leaves him is thick and raspy. “You took me a long time ago.”

“I don’t plan on giving you back.”

“You really know how to wine and dine a guy.” I wipe the last of the grease from my mouth, crumple the napkin, and roll it in the center of the oil-splotched paper plate.

“Name one place you would have rather eaten,” he demands, not taking his hungry gaze from my lips.

The grin that pulls at them is unequal to any before because he knows me so well. I love Japanese food. I adore fine dining. My favorite of all time, though, is chomping a dollar slice while standing on the sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen.

There’s comfort in the simplicity of the meal and the ambience. Around here, no one gives a shit about the status of your career or the home you live in or what clothes you wear. They have more important shit to worry about. Then there’s the cheese, bread, and sauce combo that makes all your problems seem small for the low price of a buck fifty and without the side effects of hard drugs.

“Can’t.” I shrug and mumble around my last bite.

“Thought so.” Arlo grabs my trash and places it in the receptacle with his. “Want another?”

“No.” It’s amazing how filling one piece of pizza is when I could eat my weight in sashimi.

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