Page 91 of Bottles & Blades

Or maybe to do to him what he did to me.

“Jean-Mi.”

He curses softly and bends, slanting his mouth over mine and kissing me as though he’s plucked those thoughts from my mind and loved every minute of them.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, drawing back. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

I’m concentrating on sucking in air, but I manage to stay, “I’m glad.”

He grins. “Dangerous woman.”

But before I can reply to that, he’s kissing me again—wet and deep and long—and I find myself pressed back to the mattress, his hard body over mine, that need inside me ratcheted so tight my lungs protest and I’m slippery between my thighs.

“No,” I murmur when he pulls back, my hands buried in his hair.

His smirk is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. “Smart,” he whispers, extricating himself from my hold. “Sweet. Kind. Funny. Beautiful.” Each word is paired with a kiss. Each word settles deep in my belly. My heart. “Will you listen?” he asks. “Or do you want me to kiss you some more?”

“Kiss me,” I say without hesitation, loving the thread of need that whips across his face, the gorgeous way his mouth curves.

He drops his mouth to mine, dipping his tongue inside, stealing my breath and leaving me liquid and lax on the mattress when he pulls away long minutes later.

“Now,” he says softly, nuzzling my throat with his nose then pressing his lips there, “I have to go, buttercup. But I do want to talk to you before I leave, yeah?”

I nod.

He sits up, drawing me up too, and when I go to grab the sheet again, the combination of cool air and shyness wanting that cover, he reaches toward the floor and scoops up the T-shirt I slept in—for a couple of hours anyway. A tug has it over my head, another has it down around my hips.

“Your parents,” he says. “I know you need to call them, likely need to see them, but I don’t want you to do either of those without me.”

“Jean-Mi?—”

“Please, baby.” His eyes fix onto mine. “Please promise me that. I was pretty harsh with your mom last night, and I don’t want you to be the one in the crosshairs when that comes back up.”

“It’s not like that.”

“She called you at two-thirty in the morning to make her some food. Is their fridge empty?” he asks, those shrewd eyes knowing far too much. “Emptier than yours?”

I suck in a breath.

“I thought not.” He sighs. “I know you said your dad’s in a bad way. Is your mom so bad off that she can’t make herself a sandwich or pour herself a bowl of cereal?”

“No,” I admit. “She can do that much.”

“But she called you?”

My gaze slides away, and it’s my turn to sigh. “They did so much for me growing up?—”

“Baby.” His voice is gentle, and I can’t look away. “I get it, that sense of obligation. But they’re your parents. They’re supposed to take care ofyou.”

“I was so sick for so long,” I say. “It was really tough on them. Financially and otherwise.”

“And being sick wasn’t tough onyou?”

I don’t have a reply to that, other than, “They’re sick now, honey.”

“I get that, and I get wanting to look after them. But you don’t do it sacrificing yourself, putting your life on hold, never having a full night’s sleep or a fridge that has plenty of food. And you especially don’t do it as penance for something that was never your fault.”

Say it like that and?—

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