Page 118 of Just Trouble

“Sweet,” he echoes under his breath, his eyes no less stormy. “Not a fave adjective of mine, Daph, especially not applied to me.”

“But you are sweet,” I tell him. “And nice.”

“Argh!”

“And sometimes a little bit spicy, too.” He starts to smile. “Definitely not predictable.”

“Thank God for that.” He surveys me with a smile. “You are definitely not predictable.”

“I thought I was.”

“Not even close. I love how you surprise me.” He bends down and kisses me, then washes my legs. “How did the moving in together thing work with you and JJ?”

“JJ?”

“Jerk Justin.”

I laugh a little even though I don’t want to talk about Justin. Luke is washing between my toes with a thoroughness I doubt is merited, but I watch him, noting how the muscles move in his shoulders, how his hands are both strong and gentle. He glances up, reminding me that I haven’t answered, and I try. “I don’t know. No big announcement. I don’t even remember a discussion. We always went to his place, because he had a house and I had a little tiny apartment. One night, it seemed too late to go home, so I stayed.” I shrug as if it doesn’t matter, because I’ve had enough reminder of Justin today to last me a year.

Maybe a lifetime.

Luke stands up quickly beside me. “Do not tell me that you routinely left his house in the middle of the night and went home alone.” When his eyes flash like that, he looks like a vengeful god.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because the world is full of predators, Daph. He should have taken you home if you weren’t staying…”

I smile at his ferocity, then reach up and touch my lips to his cheek. He has, of course, a perfect scruffy single day of stubble, and his beard is ridiculously soft. I love the feel of it beneath my lips and think I should probably tell him how good it feels on my nipples.

“I like how protective you are,” I say instead.

“It’s just how I am.”

“I know.” I smile, knowing how he’ll respond to my next words. “It’s sweet.”

“Let’s get back to spicy,” he growls but I glimpse satisfaction in his eyes before he kisses me with such heat that he steals my breath away.

Again.

This man. How is it that his effect on me only gets stronger every time we’re together? Shouldn’t it diminish? Shouldn’t familiarity breed contempt or at least indifference? But it doesn’t. I feel like he’s cast a spell over me and it just becomes more powerful with prolonged exposure—and the amazing part is that I like that just fine.

I love him, always and forever.

I can admit it to myself, at least.

It’s laterand we’re in bed. I’m lying on my stomach, feeling better than I ever have on day one, and Luke is kneeling behind me. His hands are on my waist, warm and heavy, and his thumbs are working some rhythmic sorcery on the small of my back. He found the herbal tea Willow gave me, the one that tastes like straw in hot water, and has made me a cup. Either it’s making me feel better or the Motrin is at work. (My bet is on the orgasms.)

I’m relaxed and content, probably too relaxed and content, because my filter is off.

I start to ask him things I want to know.

I’m grabbing this take-a-chance philosophy and running with it.

“How do you know all about this?” is my first question. “About this time of the month.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I have to think that one-and-done doesn’t usually happen with the special effects.”

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