Page 106 of Bleacher Report
"I’ll always have your back, Hunter," she says quietly. "Even after our time’s up."
I grin at the idea of it. "Yeah? Are we bonded for life now?"
"Obviously. Fake exes forever," she says, her smile widening. "And what about Sproutacus? We have to stay civil for the plant-child."
I laugh, the sound breaking something open in my chest, and my body shakes, which makes her laugh too and grip onto my chest for stability.
Without thinking, I reach up, pushing back the strands of hair that have fallen in her face when she leaned forward.
Her smile fades slightly, her eyes darkening—finally, we’re on the same page.
"Warning, Peyton," I murmur, giving her one last out.
But she doesn’t take it.
Instead, she makes the first move—she bends down, her mouth slamming against mine, and every thought scatters.
The kiss is rough, desperate, teeth and tongues and hands that can’t get enough.
Her fingers slide into my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me growl against her mouth. She pulls back at the sound, taking it for something else.
“Your shoulder,” she says, concerned.
“Fuck my shoulder. Come here,” I say and then pull her back down to my mouth.
I slip my hands under her jersey, finding the bare skin of her stomach first—hot and smooth—and then I push higher, cupping the soft weight of her breasts.
She gasps into my mouth, arching into my touch, and I nearly lose it right then and there.
She tastes like a home I’ve never known, and everything I didn’t know I was starving for.
I nip at her bottom lip, feeling her shudder against me, and then her hands are under my T-shirt, skating across my abs, dragging little sounds from the back of my throat.
My hands pull reluctantly from her perfect breasts and slide over her hips, gently rocking her over my cock to test her interest. She moans into my mouth at the friction.
I want her.
God, I want her.
I want—
The doorbell rings.
Peyton jerks back like she’s been electrocuted, panting, eyes wide. We stare at each other for one frozen second, chests heaving, the air crackling between us. Then she bursts into laughter—half hysterical, half mortified.
"The pizza," she gasps.
I groan, dropping my head back against the couch.
"Fucking perfect timing."
“It’s probably best. Rule number one…remember?” But even I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She wants this as bad as I do. I could already feel her dampening through her leggings.
She scrambles off me, her hair a mess, her jersey wrinkled and riding up.
I watch her go, dazed and more lost for her than I have any damn right to be.
Chapter Twenty-One
