Page 82 of Out on a Limb
I shook my head.
His other brow lifted to join the first, prompting a confession I should keep to myself.
But there didn’t seem much point in it now. Might as well just roll with the snowball I’d sent sailing. “I don’t remember saying I was sorry for it.”
Andrew’s eyes sharpened to a focus that heated my whole body all the way to my toes.
And made my feet move faster.
Maybe it was fear.
Maybe it was self-preservation.
Maybe it was reflex.
Whatever it was, somehow I’d already made it all the way down the hall and I was quickly running out of space.
My heel caught on the transition strip separating wood from carpet and I started to tip backward.
Andrew lunged, catching me in what might best be described as a tackle. I let out a squeal as I sailed backwards through the air, flailing as I tried to catch myself.
We came to an abrupt stop, bodies bouncing together in a moment that felt like déjà vu.
I’d been here before.
Wedged between Andrew and the softness of my mattress.
Only this time it was light enough I could see the way he was looking at me.
And I was sober enough to realize I might be in over my head on this one.
His arms were at each side of me, bracketing me in as his nose slid along the side of mine. “Did you decide what you’re apologizing for?”
I shook my head.
“Does that mean you’re not really sorry?” His lips were so close they almost touched mine.
I swallowed hard.
Then I shook my head again.
I wasn’t sorry. Not really.
Not even for being a little aggressive, which was unnecessary in hindsight.
Because it was looking like Andrew was perfectly capable of handling that part of things.
And that definitely worked for me.
Andrew’s eyes moved over my face. “Tell me what you want from me, Pickles. I need you to say it.”
I melted a little. “I like when you call me Pickles.”
His lips skimmed along the line of my jaw. “What else do you like?”
“I like when you pin me down.”
Andrew growled against my ear as his hips ground into me.
