Page 41 of Triple Play
I look up at him, really look.
His face is all hard angles in the harsh light—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw—but there’s something in his eyes that’s soft,
raw. Like he’s letting me see something he doesn’t show anyone else.
“Thanks,” I say.
We’re staring at each other now, the air between us shifting, charging.
He stands abruptly, takes his mug to the sink, and rinses it with his back to me.
I watch the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter.
“I should let you get back to not sleeping,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
I stand, take my mug to the sink, and set it next to his.
Our arms brush—just barely. The contact lasts half a second.
He goes still.
I step back, head for the doorway, and get three steps before his voice stops me.
“Elise.”
I turn.
He’s facing me now, those dark eyes intense, conflicted.
“Yeah?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Whatever he was going to say, he swallows it back.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
I should leave. Should go back upstairs and let this weird middle-of-the-night truce end here.
Instead, I take a step toward him. “What were you going to say?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Wyatt—”
He crosses to me in three strides, moving so fast I barely have time to process it.
Then his hands are cupping my face, rough palms against my cheeks. He smells like tea and body wash.
He kisses me.
It’s not like Jordie’s kiss—playful, testing, sweet.
This is desperate, raw—like he’s been holding it back and finally broke.
His lips are firm against mine, demanding but not forceful, asking a question with his mouth that I answer by leaning in.
The kiss deepens for one perfect second. His thumb strokes my cheekbone, and my hands come up to grip his wrists.
