Page 85 of Better Hate than Never

I’m still gaping when he runs through the crosswalk.

“Christopher!” I yell, pumping my arms tight against my body, evening out my stride, then fucking leaning into it.

He glances over his shoulder. His eyes widen as he sees me gaining on him. “Shit!”

“Yeah, you better be scared!”

He laughs like it’s disbelief, turning the corner onto my apartment’s block, making a fatal mistake, swinging wide and losing precious ground. Which is when I lean tight into the corner and pour everything into the last stretch of our race, streaking past him and taking the lead five feet before we make it to mybuilding’s door in a stumbling mess of ragged breaths and hands slapping against the glass.

I laugh deliriously, my back against the door, Christopher’s hands planted on either side of my head.

The fun and laughter of our race dwindle in the silence. The wind stings my cheeks and beats against my thick coat. I watch it plaster Christopher’s jacket against his body, wrenching his hair off his face.

I can’t take my eyes off him.

And he can’t seem to take his eyes off me.

Staring at him, it’s like I’ve lost a layer of my skin, so raw, so keenly aware there’s nothing I can hide, nowhere to escape how much I want him.

I slide my hands up his chest, breathing unsteadily, feeling his chest work like bellows as I search for words I don’t know how to say. For all my bravery and badassery, traveling the world, learning new languages and customs, rules and regulations, finding places, getting lost, learning from mistakes, scraping by, I can’t find my voice or the words I need.

Christopher dips his head, his nose brushing mine. “Tell me what you want, Kate.” His hand cradles my jaw. His thumb traces my lip. “Tell me.”

Maybe it’s the fact that I see it so clearly in his eyes, that I feel it in the faint tremor of his hand, in the rough, uneven gusts of air leaving his lungs. Maybe I’m finally finding my courage not just to fight but tofeel. Maybe I’m finally safe to let myself desire and need and say it. Whatever it is, it swirls and builds, a violent, beautiful storm coursing through me, filling my lungs, making me brave.

“I want you.” I breathe the words, staring up at him, my hand over his pounding heart. “And you want me, too.”

“God, yes,” he groans as I reach for him, as he crashes down on me. Our kiss is hard and bruising, rough and perfect. I open mymouth and wind my arms tighter around his neck, while his hands drift down my back, over my ass, then grip my legs, hoisting them around his waist until he’s lifting me up. He slips his hand into my coat pocket, pulling out the key, then clumsily slides it into the lock and yanks open the inner door.

“Hurry,” I beg, tightening my legs around his waist, moving myself shamelessly against him.

“Hurrying.” His mouth grazes my earlobe, my jaw, my throat, as he takes us up the stairs two at a time.

A whimper leaves me as he walks me up to the apartment door and pins me there, breathing harshly, fumbling with the key again and cursing under his breath.

A sound escapes me, half whine, half belly laugh.

Christopher laughs, too, then steals a hard kiss, silencing us both.

Finally the door to the apartment flies open and we stumble inside. He shoves the door shut, flips the bolt, then nearly dumps me onto two feet, yanking down the zipper of my coat.

I wrench it off with his help, then tackle his coat, too. His hands slip under my sweater, around my waist as he tugs me against him, then walks me backward toward the sofa.

Bending his head, he brushes his lips against mine, tender, soft, his tongue dancing with mine. I sink my hands into his shirt and feel the fabric crumple. “More.”

He groans against my mouth, his hands gliding higher up my sweater, cupping my breasts. When the backs of my knees hit the sofa’s arm, I yank him with me, making him grunt as we fall, him on top.

“Easy,” he mutters. “I could hurt you.”

I laugh. “Petruchio, if you think you’re the biggest thing to land on me, you are sorely mistaken.”

I’m about to brag about the incident involving the biggestthing to land on me in all my work travels (that would be an adolescent alligator), and who came out on top (that would be me), but given his freak-out earlier about a couple of paintballs coming my way, I decide to keep that little anecdote to myself so he’ll keep doing this thing with my nipples that’s making me pant like I’ve just run wind sprints.

“These tits,” he grunts. “Torturing me with that little show you put on in the train.”

I’m wild, mindless, and I slide my hands beneath his shirt, feeling hot skin, the solidity of his body, that line of hair trailing down from his navel. “Kiss them.”

Christopher’s mouth is hungry, a blissful dance of wet and warm and teasing as he kisses his way down my throat with nips of his teeth, silken flicks of his tongue. His hands cup my breasts, palming them appreciatively.

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