Page 103 of Better Hate than Never

I nod, my grip firm on the doorknob. “Mm-hmm. Let’s go.” Itake his hand and start down the hall, but he doesn’t budge, sending me boomeranging back into him.

“Oof.” I bump into his chest. “C’mon, we have to go.”

He stares down at me. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

I grimace. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”

His eyes darken as he steps closer. “That was a very foolish thing to hope, Katerina.”

“I’m behind on laundry,” I tell him apologetically. “The machines in the basement creep me out, and I was so busy all week, I kept forgetting to go to the laundromat, but I’ll do laundry soon, I promise. I’ll wash it right away and give it back to you—”

He bends and kisses me, deep and slow. I lean into it on a sigh as he nudges my mouth open and his tongue grazes mine.

“Keep it,” he says between kisses. “You wearing it is not the problem.”

I blink up at him, a little dazed by those kisses. “Then whatisthe problem?”

A husky laugh leaves him as he wraps me in his arms. “The problem is that I’m thinking about you injustthat shirt, lifting it while my hands wander up your thighs straight to where I want, then tearing it off of you and teasing you with my mouth and hands until you’re begging me to make you come.”

My eyes widen. “Me wearing your shirt inspired all ofthat?”

He sighs, then he kisses me softly, closemouthed and sweet. “It doesn’t take much these days to inspire deeply erotic thoughts about you.”

I bite my lip. Leaning closer, I wrap my arms around his neck.

“What kind of erotic thoughts?” I ask, pressing up on my toes, taking his lip between my teeth and tugging softly.

On a growl, he pulls himself away, putting distance between our bodies except for his forehead, which he presses to mine. “Even I have limits, and telling you what I’ve been fantasizing aboutbefore we have to leave for Sunday dinner is it. Now, go on, get your jacket and bag so we can leave. We’ll be late if we don’t head out now, and we both know how Maureen feels about that.”

I grab his hand as he turns toward my room. “What are you doing?”

He arches an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder. “I was going to grab your laundry for you.”

I almost laugh. He thinks he could just walk in and pick up a hamper of dirty clothes. “Why were you going to get my laundry?”

“To bring it to your parents’,” he says, as if this is obvious and entirely logical. “You could get it done tonight while you’re there, couldn’t you?”

“Christopher. You’re not getting my laundry.”

“Suit yourself. Just pack it all in a bag, and I’ll carry it for you.”

“I don’t want to make us late—”

He starts toward my room again.

“Fine!” I yell, darting past him and slipping through a crack in the door. “I’ll be ready in five minutes!”

—

Christopher sits beside me at my parents’ dining table. He’s kept his hands to himself, but below the table, his knee rubs against my thigh, making me bite my lip as I stare into the remnants of the crème brûlée we had for dessert.

“Kate,” Dad says. “You said you had a project you started this week, wasn’t that right? Have any photos to share?”

Bea narrows her eyes across the table from me. “I already asked. She’s been so secretive about them.”

“I don’t like to show them until they’re edited,” I explain.

“You’ve been editing all day,” Christopher says. “Come on, Katydid.”

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