Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(42)

“No,” she whispered, smile fading. “Not really.”

Worried, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly against him. She didn’t sob, didn’t heave. But he felt more dampness against his neck. “I . . . I didn’t hurt you, did I? If I did something, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I—”

“No, of course not.” Her voice was low, but strong enough. “It’s just how you . . . you know. How I didn’t say a word and you still managed to . . . you know.”

“Make you come?” he said, laughing a little when she winced. “You can say it, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not just that. But how you . . . I don’t know. I’m being stupid.” She rolled back on her back and wiped at her face, hiding her eyes. “Ignore me. I’m just having a moment of stupidity.”

“No, you’re not. If you feel something, it’s not stupid.” But she seemed to need to grapple with whatever it was solo. He hoped that changed in the future. “I should get going. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He kissed her forehead and stood, shaking out one leg a little and adjusting the front of his jeans. This would make for an uncomfortable drive home.

She glared at him from bed. “You’re leaving? We’re not finished.”

They were for now. “Tonight was yours.” When she just stared at him, he grinned. “I believe the phrase you are searching for is, ‘Thank you, Graham. I’ll miss you.’”

She rolled her eyes, then rolled up and out of bed, pulling off her shirt and bra fully as she did so.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear that.” He pinched the top of her thigh as she bent over to pick up her pants. She shrieked and jumped. That made him laugh. “Oh, now we can’t stay quiet.”

“You!” She swatted at him, but he darted out of reach. When she threw her clothes in the hamper in the corner and opened a drawer, he crossed his arms to watch. She pulled out what he assumed were her pajamas—an oversized T-shirt and a tiny pair of booty shorts—and started to pull them on.

Looking supremely annoyed, with mussed up hair and a blush that seemed permanent around him, she yanked the shirt on over her head. “What’s the deal? You come in here and you eat dinner and you play video games and you make me . . . you know. And then you leave?”

He thought for a moment about that. “Sounds like a decent Tuesday night . . . minus the leaving.” When she narrowed her eyes at him, he caught her around the waist, hauled her against him so she could feel his erection, and kissed her with enough passion she wouldn’t doubt for a moment he wanted to stay. “If I could, I’d stay. But you don’t want me to, because of the circumstances. I don’t blame you a bit. So I’m not going to make you kick me out. I’m going to leave myself, before things go farther.”

“At least . . . just lie with me for a bit?” She held out a hand to him, sitting down on the bed as she did so. “Please. This is the part I like the most. When we were quiet on Sunday night, after . . . you know. Afterward, just laying together.”

How the hell did he say no to that? “Fine. A few minutes.” He toed off his shoes, thought for a moment about his cargo shorts and shirt, then decided they were sufficient enough. He crawled into her bed, surrounded by fluffy white pillows, then sighed in contentment as she curled up beside him, humming with pleasure.

“It doesn’t feel right,” she admitted softly, tracing the hem of his T-shirt with her fingertip. “That I got so much and you got nothing.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He kissed her again, tenderly. “Don’t you know watching you get what you want is exactly what I want?”


*

KARA woke to the alarm, as she did every morning. She purposefully set it ten minutes early so she had one snooze button’s worth of extra time before she had no choice but to leave the warm comfort of the covers and the softness of her pillow.

Except her pillow was hard this morning. It was firm, barely yielding as she pushed her hand to it to gain leverage to roll over and hit her snooze button. And it grunted.

Her pillow grunted . . .

Oh, sweet Jesus.

“Graham!” she hissed, bolting up straight. “Graham. Oh my God, we fell asleep!”

“Yeah,” he said, not opening his eyes. “You made me lay down.”

“You have to wake up!” She pushed at his torso. It was as effective as shoving at a boulder.

“I will, chill out.” He stretched his hands above his head, which made the shirt ride up his stomach. All that golden skin, warm and inviting and . . .

“Zach will wake up in ten minutes. Getupgetupgetup!”

“No, we just . . . no.” One dark eye cracked open, glanced around. “We were out for five minutes. Ten, max.”

“We were out for almost eight hours. Up.”

“Damn. Okay, I’m up. Where are my shoes?” he asked, rolling out of bed. “They’re, okay, here.”

She walked with him to the living room, then stood gaping when he paused long enough to sit on the couch. “What are you doing?”

“Shoes. I don’t think I should walk barefoot out of here. Gross. Can I hit the head before I go?”

“No, I . . . oh God,” she whispered as she heard Zach’s door open, then the door to the bathroom. “Throw your shoes down.”