Page 121 of Wish You Were Mine
I leaned into his touch without even thinking, my eyes fluttering closed for half a second—just long enough to memorize the feel of his skin on mine.
When I opened my eyes again, he was still watching me.
Like I was something fragile. Impossible. Like he couldn’t believe I was real.
His thumb brushed across my cheekbone—so gently it made my breath catch—then traced down to the curve of my chin, tilting it ever so slightly.
I lifted my face toward his, only a breath separating us now. Every nerve ending in my body lit up, aching for him to close that space. To kiss me already and put me out of my misery.
Please.
Just do it.
“Lucy…”he whispered, my name catching in his throat. Like he was trying to remind himself we shouldn’t.
Like he was asking me to stop this before he lost control.
But I didn’t want to stop.
Slowly, I turned my head and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist—soft, deliberate, and filled with every ounce of longing I hadn’t dared speak aloud.
His breath caught before a low, ragged sound escaped his chest—half groan, half surrender.
And then I saw it, the shift in his eyes.
The unraveling.
Like his grip on restraint was loosening, and this time, he didn’t want to stop it from slipping away.
His jaw tensed, the muscles in his arm tightening beneath my fingers.
He searched my face, like he was still clinging to the question we weren’t saying out loud.
Then he exhaled, low and rough. “Ah, screw it,” he muttered.
A second later, his hands were tangling in my hair, his mouth covering mine.
The kiss was rough.
Hungry.
And everything I’d been aching for.
He tasted like heat and tension, like something forbidden that I couldn’t stop wanting. So I leaned into him, sliding my hands up his chest, over the steady hammer of his heart.
Man, he was solid—strong in a way that surprised me for someone who spent most of his days in a classroom or a lab. My fingers lingered, exploring the contours of muscle beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. I found myself wondering about his workout routine. Wondering if he’d ever let me tag along, just so I could watch.
His hands found my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me until we were pressed together. And while he’d hugged me just a few days ago, this—his body against mine, his lips setting fire to my thoughts—was something else entirely.
He slid his hands up my sides, slow and possessive, palms smoothing around my ribcage until they spread across my back. And it felt so good. To be held like this. To be wanted like this. Safe and secure and desired.
“You taste so good,” he breathed against my lips. “Feel incredible.”
“So do you,” I panted, my fingers curled at the hem of his shirt—needing more, craving more. When I slipped them underneath, my palms met warm, unyielding muscle. I traced the lines of his stomach, the ridges of his abs, the rise and fall of his chest with every unsteady breath.
His whole body went still.
Then a groan rumbled low in his throat, and his hands slid down to grip my hips before he lifted me like I weighed nothing.
