Page 106 of Good Graces

“If you’re lucky.”

He laughs under his breath. “Maybe I should make you wait. Punish you a little.”

I lean back against his pillows. “Mmm. Afraid my little trainer friend’s got something you don’t?”

His smile falters. “Don’t start with me.”

I grin, tipping my head back. “Huh? Didn’t realize you were so needy and insecure. That’s a new feature.”

His eyes narrow. “You trying to push me, Rose?”

“What?” I drag my fingers up my thigh, letting my shirt ride higher. “You don’t want me to?”

“Depends. Is me being possessive a turn-off?”

“Undecided.” I lick my lips. Really take my time, watching his jaw tense. “Maybe you should ask me if I fucked him to help me figure it out.”

He blinks down at me. “Sorry?”

I wave a flippant hand. “Go on.”

His gaze sharpens. “Did you fuck your trainer, Quinn?”

“What’s it matter to you?”

“It matters,” he says darkly, “because if you did, I’m gonna have to go back and break the fucking hands he put on you.” He pauses, voice dropping to something low and lethal. “And then I’m gonna have to spend the rest of the night showing you what he could never do to you—what only I can give you.”

The heat hits me like a punch to the ribs—sharp and sudden, curling low in my stomach. I want him more than air, more than reason.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, grabbing his chain again and tugging him closer. “Yeah. I think that works for me.”

I barely get the words out before he’s on me. His hands are in my hair, mouth rough against my throat. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing hesitant.

His teeth scrape my bottom lip, his fingers digging into my waist, and I meet every kiss with one of my own. I’m just as hungry for it, just as demanding, and just as desperate to feel something that isn’t doubt.

I hook my leg over his hip, dragging him closer. His hand slips beneath my shirt, rough palm skating over my ribs. That cold chain brushes my throat, a chill against heated skin, and I shiver beneath him, wanting more, wanting everything.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers against my mouth.

I grab his face, fingers curling hard against his jaw. “I’m yours.”

His breath stutters, and then he kisses me again, deeper and rougher. I don’t stop him. I wouldn’t even know how. I want to drown in it, to let it wash away whatever resentment might still be tangled up between us.

When his lips trail down my neck, dragging heat across my skin, I roll over and reach for his nightstand, fingers fumbling with the drawer until I find the box of condoms. It’s half-crushed in the corner, with only one or two left inside.

My stomach twists. A sharp, ugly pang that I know I have no right to feel.

What did I expect? That he’d been waiting around for me? Celibate for two years, frozen in time?

I wasn’t. I know I wasn’t.

But still, the sight of it sticks, wedging itself beneath my ribs. A jealous, possessive knot that winds tighter with every breath. I made fun of him for being insecure, yet here I am, seething over something I can’t even blame him for.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I say sharply, flicking a condom at him.

He winces. It’s a fractured sort of look, like he’s almost ashamed of it. Like it unsettles him, too.

And maybe I should back off. Maybe I should give myself a second to breathe and let the bitterness pass. But all I can do is kiss him harder.

---