Page 67 of The Front Runner
I feel the light dusting of hair over his chest against my cheek as I close my eyes. I can see his face above mine last night while he moved over me, giving me more pleasure than I’ve ever experienced.
I was mindless in the moment. But the memory haunts me. The green eyes. The knowledge he’s looking for his biological father. Knowing I have a hunch and haven’t disclosed it makes my stomach burn. I need to figure this out, and fast. It’s a terrible secret to keep. But blowing up multiple people’s lives when I could be wrong isn’t ideal either. I need to stick to my plan, my hypothesis followed by a proper inquiry so I don’t make an ass of myself.
He’ll never forgive me if I’m wrong. Too many people in his life have let him down, lied to him. He talks about protecting the people around him, but it sounds to me like no one has ever protectedhim. I don’t want to cause him pain. When I tell him about this, I want to be sure. And after lying here for the past hour mulling it over, I don’t think anything less than sure is a risk I’m willing to take. Anything less is not what he deserves.
I need to play it safe with Stefan Dalca, because I don’t want to lose whatever it is that we’ve just found.
“Stop squirming or you’ll force me to fuck you again.” Stefan’s voice is sleepy against the top of my head and his legs tangle with mine, clamping them down into the memory foam mattress.
I giggle quietly and feel his hips grind forward, his erection rubbing against my stomach. “You’re out of condoms, remember?”
“Careful handing me a challenge like that, Mira. I’m full of ideas that don’t require a condom at all. That’s hardly a deterrent.”
His fingers trail down my arm, my skin pebbles beneath his touch. “Tell me about this tattoo.” His voice is all gruff and sleepy, butterflies erupt in my stomach. “What does it mean?”
I giggle quietly, watching his finger trace the outline of the black floral design on the inside of forearm. “It doesn’t mean anything. My parents told me I couldn’t get a tattoo when I asked for one, so I went out and found someone who would give me one without their permission anyway.”
He hums thoughtfully before lifting my hand and pressing a quick kiss to my palm before resting it against his cheek. “Fascinating that you still think it means nothing.”
“What do you mean?” I look up at him, and his eyes glow with such intensity, his beauty is consuming—it steals my breath just to look at him this closely. This intimately.
That signature devil-may-care grin graces his lips, and then his mouth is against the ornate ink on my arm, lips and tongue tracing the lines in a way that has me squeezing my thighs together. “This right here is proof that you are your own woman,” he says against my skin. “No one tells Dr. Mira Thorne what she can and can’t do.”
I try to change the direction of our conversation, feeling suddenly jumpy in the presence of someone who can turn me to putty in his hands while also reading me so damn easily. Someone whose vision is like a laser through every shield I’ve erected. Someone who appreciates my rebellious streak—encourages it even.
“What’s with you always kissing my palm?”
His eyes meet mine once again and his responding smile is soft and vulnerable; completely oblivious to my inner turmoil. Instead of replying right away, he runs his fingers over top of mine, still watching his skin slide against my own with a look of quiet awe on his face.
“You have beautiful hands. Almost as beautiful as your mind and heart. Sometimes I find myself staring at them while you work, so elegant and strong all at once. Hands that heal. Hands that save lives.” His voice drops. “Hands that belong in mine.”
My heart races, and my body heats. I swear it’s like he uncovered some secret button on me and knows exactly how to push it. He makes me feel treasured. I get this indulgent side of him that no one else sees. I feel like I’m in on a secret. One that I want to keep for myself—to revel in.
“See? You like that plan. I can tell by the little sigh you just made,” he grumbles, lifting my palm to press a reverent kiss right to the center, his lashes fluttering shut as he does.
I didn’t even notice the sigh. I must sound like a lovesick teenager.
“It’s true. You promised me I wouldn’t be bored, and I’m not.”
One eye flicks open as he looks down at me. “You really thought sex was boring?”
“It was always… Fine? Like… nice? But not something I felt like I couldn’t go without. My mind would always wander somewhere else. Like a diagnosis I couldn’t figure out, or what’s going to happen on the nextGrey’s Anatomy. It just wasn’t a priority. I’m too busy to worry about sex. Still am.”
He chuckles like he doesn’t believe me. “Okay, Dr. Thorne.”
“What?” I bristle. “I am. Better sex doesn’t make me any less busy.”
“Better? Is that all?” He lifts up to rest his head in his palm and smirks down at me.
If I were wearing panties, they would melt for a smile like that. Instead, we’re both tangled up in each other, completely naked, and now I’m feeling like that was a colossally stupid idea. Even a single layer of protection would have kept his hand from gliding across my bare skin, from cupping my ass and sliding a finger through my slick core.
“You’re awfully wet for someone who is just barely better than bored.”
I say nothing as his fingers continue their exploration, spreading my wetness over my lips as proof of how completely full of lies I am.
“Do you often get this wet for men who aren’t your type, Dr. Thorne?”
My head snaps to him. “Stop saying that.” I don’t like him saying that. I meant it to push him away, and now it’s not true. It’s so damn far from the truth. And I’m done pushing this beautiful, complex man away.
