Page 53 of Deep End

We breathe fast and loud in each other’s mouths, and his grip shifts to my hip, rough and demanding, slipping under the waistband of my joggers—until noise seeps in from the outside.

A cart being pulled. Stacks of books falling. Hushed apologies. We both freeze, coil-muscled, long enough to regain some common sense.

Or at least, formeto do that. I unwind my arms from his shoulders, inching back against the wall to put space between us. Lukas seems to have a harder time letting go. Even after his hands leave my waist and my cheeks, he’s still unwilling to pull away. He remains there, hulking into me, a cage of bone and muscles and hungry eyes, fists white-knuckled against the wall, on either side of my head. His tattoos clench and release.

He’s trying to get himself under control, but he’s not quite there.

I reach up to touch the freckles that fill the hollow under his cheekbone, and he exhales a slow laugh, no more than a puff of breath against my temple, stymied and hot. A smile builds inside me in response, and I lift my chin to kiss him again. This time it’s a slow thing, even as his heart races against my skin. His lips slip against mine, quiet, almost sweet, and my hand closes in the fabric of his shirt, a silent, reassuringI’m here, I’ve got you.

I savor his face buried in my neck, the tickle of his stubble, the rough, throaty groan as he inhales my skin. His warmth and scent and sheer size, pressing into me. Odd, how this started out frenzied and wild, but evolved into something languid. Just easy.

“We need to stop,” I say evenly, running a hand through theshort hair at the back of his head. When he draws away, his eyes are open and earnest.

He pulls a chair back, hair a little tousled. It’s an invitation to sit down and give him space.

“You okay?” I ask when we’re both at the table.

His nod is quick. When I smile, he smiles back. Tense, maybe, but sincere.

“Do I have to read your list?” I ask, eyeing the still-folded sheet. “Can we just . . . skip that part?”

His eyebrows knit. “No.”

“No, I don’t have to read it—?”

“No, you cannot skip it.”

“Says who?”

“The rules.”

I tilt my head. “Who made the rules?”

“Me.”

Tilt it more.

“I think you’re okay with that, Scarlett,” he says.

Tilt itmore.

“Hard for me to buy that you don’t like me taking charge, given what I just read.” His words are calm, but my cheeks glow. He’s right. In a sense, he might know me better than anyone in the entire world.

I’m not sure how to deal with that.

“You know I’m not some kind of pushover, right? This is about sex. I’m not looking for some kind of twenty-four seven arrangement.”

His eyes harden. “Scarlett, youneedto read my list, because the only way we can do this in a healthy and sane way is if we both know what to expect.” His stare is measuring. “What are you afraid of? That there will be thingsIwant andyoudon’t want, and I’ll ask you to do them anyway?”

I glance away.

“The opposite, then.” He sighs, and it’s tender, the way his fingers move across the table, knuckles brushing my own. An electric spark, liquid, searing, travels through my nerve endings. I’m convinced he’ll take my hand, but he pulls back almost immediately.

A wise move, all things considered. Maybe we shouldn’t be left alone at all.

He leans back in his chair, the line of his shoulders once again uncompromising. “Scarlett, you—”

A phone—Lukas’sphone—rings. He checks the caller ID and tilts his head back with a muttered, exhausted word. Once again, not English.

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