Page 66 of You Spin Me

“It’s so pretty I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Agh.” He waves a hand in the air. “It’s a snack. Eat.”

When I’m out with a guy, I’m often very conscious of what I eat. Guys can be weird about it, like it’s a turn-off if you have too much. The other night at the bar, Cal scarfed down his burger and didn’t seem to care that I did too. So I make a little sandwich of pickle and cheese. He waits for me to pop it in my mouth and then asks, “Is that actually good?”

I nod enthusiastically, my mouth full, and he tries the combo. He makes a face, but he swallows it. “Not for me. I like ’em separated by beer.”

After clinking my bottle with his and taking a sip, I encourage the muscles of my shoulders to relax as I enjoy the food. Nails click on the floor, and Blondie appears, obviously begging for a treat. I raise my brows as I pick up a chunk of cheese.

“She can have a little piece.”

Nothing like bribing your way into the heart of your boyfriend’s dog.

Hm. Have to file that thought for perusal later. Second time in two days that I’ve used a word I generally avoid. I go on dates, and I sleep with guys. I keep things light and my options open.

But there’s something about this man. I want to worm my way into that hidden heart of his. And if the path includes sucking up to the girl who got there first, I have no shame.

The dog is a bit intimidating, like she could take my arm off without even thinking about it. I need to let her know we’re on the same side, so I hold out the treat and trust her to take it.

Which she does, almost delicately, before wolfing it down, revealing big sharp teeth, but I leave my hand out. After swallowing, she sniffs my hand and gives it a lick before meeting my gaze with a hopeful look. I pet the surprisingly silky fur on the top of her head and slip her a cracker, too.

When Cal laughs at my sneakiness, it transforms his face. Yes, his skin is uneven in color and texture. Yes, his left ear doesn’t quite match the right. But his sincere smile softens the scars and reveals part of what’s beneath the outer layers—delight, warmth, kindness—making me want to see more.

His thumb wipes my cheek. “What’s the matter?”

I check the other cheek. “Oops. Guess I’m leaking.”

He just raises his good eyebrow.

I let out a little laugh of my own. “I’m not really kidding. Sometimes I get so full of feelings that they overflow.”

Suddenly this counter between us is a problem, so I slide off my stool and shrug off my coat. Taking a big breath, I walk around the island so I can take his hands, both of them. “Listen. I like sex. A lot. But I like you more. The more time I spend with you, the more I want to. I don’t want to mess that up. I want to have sex with you, but I want us to really be ready.” His gaze has dropped to the floor so I squeeze his hands. “Okay?”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

He seems genuinely confused, so I choose my words carefully. “For me, it means I don’t want to have a one-night stand with you. Which is, frankly, what I usually do.” My heart’s pounding all of a sudden, and not with desire. With fear, I guess. That he’ll judge me. “Sorry.”

He squeezes my hands back, a pout on his face. “Does this mean I don’t get laid tonight?” When my jaw drops, he releases my hands to raise his in the air. “I’m kidding. Of course. I agree, I think, but I’m not sure I get what you want. Do you want to go home?”

“I don’t; I just want to take it slow. Or maybe, it’s…” Taking his right hand, I wrap it around my left wrist. “You let me know when and where you’re ready to be touched. When you place my hand on your skin, I’ll take that as permission, that I have license to touch you on that spot whenever I want.”

“Okay. But you have to do the same.”

Unexpected, his words are like a pinprick to my heart. It answers,You have scars too, Jess.

Releasing my wrist, he wraps my hand around his. “You have to tell me where and howyoulike to be touched. Starting now.”

Before the fear of exposure can stop me, I place his palm on the side of my face. His warmth immediately begins to ease the tension in my jaw. When he strokes my cheek with his thumb, I want more, so I guide it across my lips before moving his hand to the back of my skull. As I’d hoped, he grips my curls and pulls my lips to his.

And the dance continues.

Even as I guide his hand down the back of my neck and around to my collarbone, I move in adagio. Neither ripping off my clothes in a breathless rush nor doing a sensual striptease would be right here. Either would be an act, even more so than with other guys. In fact, it’s slowly becoming clear that I’ve been playing the part of a turned-on woman for years, because right now every spot he comes in contact with lights up like I’m a virgin who’s never been touched by a man. Maybe on some level I am, because the way Cal touches me goes beyond the simple boundaries of skin-on-skin.

I’m more keyed up right now than I’ve ever been, and we haven’t removed a single item of clothing.

When he takes my hand to draw it across his left cheek, there’s a searing warmth in the center of my chest that blurs the border of pleasure and pain, melting my worries from the inside out.

Before, my fingertips had been curious, wanting to know what the scars felt like. Now, all they can do is grasp both sides of his face to pull his lips back to mine.

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