Page 89 of Isaac

"Thinking about anything?"

"Nothing important," I reply as I take another drag from the cigarette. "Just... stuff."

"Stuff, huh?" His fingers trace idle patterns on my chest until they reach my hand and snatch the rest of the cigarette. "You know you're a terrible liar when you’re in bed, right?"

"Maybe," I concede. I’m not in the mood to argue. I’m too relaxed and too blissed out and if he were to try and tie me upright now, I probably wouldn’t put up a fight. It’s dangerous—this feeling. "And you’re terrible at small talk."

He inhales a lungful of smoke and holds it in before letting it back out. "I haven’t really done small talk after sex in a long time."

"Is that so?" I turn to look at him. "How long we’re talking about?" Suddenly, I find myself interested in who he slept with before me and if it was just intense, and if I can find that fucker or put a bullet in his head for once touching what’s now mine.

"A while," he supplies cryptically.

"Three months? Six months? Seven months?"

My suggestions conjure up an amused smile on his face.

"Am I even close?" I ask, curious. "Is it getting warmer when the number goes up to double digits?"

"Definitely warmer."

"Well, congrats. You haven’t lost your touch."

"Guess I haven’t." He shifts on the bed, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. "Made you come, didn’t I?"

"Don’t get cocky," I tease.

He rests his hand on my stomach, his palm large, fingers long and calloused and warm and so familiar. "So, are you in double digits too?" he whispers.

My heart rate picks up immediately.

I’m silent, unsure if I'm ready to share that part of my past with him. Telling people my secrets means giving them ammunition to destroy me later.

"Been a while for me too," I whisper. That’s all I think I’m going to give him now.

"Double digits too then," he concludes.

"Probably triple," I blurt out. Why? I don’t know. It’s the first time in my life I don’t want to share something with someone but I open the door to the fucking conversation. It’s like a part of me doesn’t want to keep it in anymore.

"Seriously?" he asks.

"You sound surprised."

"I always thought someone as…fucking gorgeous as you would have people lining up."

"You watch too many shitty crime TV shows."

"You missed the compliment."

"I didn’t. I just chose not to make a big deal out of it."

Hawk props himself on one elbow and reaches over to stub out a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray that wobbles precariously on the edge of our rumpled sheets.

He leans forward abruptly to seize my face between callused fingers and press his mouth—ardent, cold fire and burning tobacco—against mine.

My body responds instantly.

Before my brain catches up.

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