Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(70)

He closed his eyes and cursed himself. Too much. Too—

“Yes,” she said softly. “I do. And I think I’m scared.”

When he opened his eyes, she was dragging her teeth over her lower lip, her frown agonized. The expression on her face practically ripped his heart open. He swallowed. Kept pushing, because screw it. “Why? Do you think I’d hurt you?” He didn’t add, Like everyone else.

She seemed to hear the words anyway. “Maybe.” Her frown deepened and she shook her head irritably. Against his chest, her hands curled into fists, fingers tangling in his T-shirt. “No. Yes. I just—I’m always afraid that …” She looked up at him, realization dawning on her face. “Red. I think I’m being a coward.”

“There’s a big difference between being a coward and putting your emotional safety first,” he said. He knew all about that.

Then again, so did she. She was nodding slowly, but her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “There is a difference. I look out for my own safety all the time. Constantly. That’s not what this is. The urge I have to avoid this,” she murmured, almost to herself, “it’s like … it’s like going to bed at nine sharp every night. Like refusing to make plans, even with my sisters. Like staying inside for a year because I don’t think I can handle catching a cold.”

He blinked, distracted for a second. “You did that?”

Her smile was a quicksilver flash. “The first few years were not good, Red. I was not good. This list isn’t the first challenge I’ve had to set myself.” She wet her lips, her eyes drifting away from his face as she sank into her thoughts. “But I always succeed. One way or another. I always take the next step, no matter how long it takes.”

“Of course you do,” he whispered. “You’re a tough motherfucker, remember?”

She looked up at him again, her smile wider this time, more certain, like it was going nowhere. Her eyes glittered with something that made his heart feel light in his chest. “That’s true. I am. And I want … you. All of you. I haven’t done this sort of thing in a while, you know. But I’d like to try. Would you?” Her gaze, dark and serious, felt like a weight—the satisfying kind, the weight of expectation that meant someone might, almost, trust you not to fuck up. His whole body went rigid with anticipation, the kind of oh-shit giddy nervousness he usually felt before an exhibit.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Chloe. Yes.”

She smiled. And then she kissed him.

It was the slightest brush of her lips over his, once, twice, three times. So soft, so gentle, his heart ached. He held his breath and closed his eyes and bent down for her, so she wouldn’t hurt herself. His fingers sank into the lush curves of her hips for one desperate moment before he forced himself to relax, to not maul her like a caveman. At least, not until she asked him to.

Her fingers fluttered at his jaw, like she wanted to touch him but wasn’t sure how to do it right. He wanted to tell her that any way she touched him would be right, but he’d rather step on a rusty fucking nail than break this barely-there kiss. Her lips brushed his again and the sensation seared through him like a shooting star, the kind that streaked the sky for long moments after it had passed. She tasted like minty toothpaste, sharp-tongued sarcasm, surprising hesitance. She was killing him. She was absolutely killing him.

Red slid a hand over her jaw and tipped her head back. She sighed as he slanted his mouth over hers and gave her the sweetest kiss he was capable of, because that’s what she’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he sank into the mouth he’d dreamed about. When he felt the edge of her glasses against his cheek, he pulled away to let her take them off—but she followed with a sound of protest. That indecisive hand of hers finally stopped hesitating; she threaded her fingers into his hair and tugged, pulling him closer, trapping him. Apparently, she didn’t care about her glasses.

His hand slid down from her jaw to her throat, just because he wanted to feel more of her skin. She hummed low and pulled his hair again, setting off flashes of pleasure like camera pops behind his eyelids. Her tongue licked shyly at his and arousal shot up his spine, bright white and urgent scarlet. She pressed herself against him, full breasts and soft belly and breathless pants into his mouth. One of her hands tugged at his T-shirt before slipping beneath. The glide of her fingertips over his abdomen made him moan like she was sucking him off. Touch me. Want me. Be mine.

He liked to let her lead, but God, someday soon, he’d touch her, too. Anywhere. Everywhere. He wanted to feel her stomach tremble under his lips when she sucked in a breath, wanted to hear her beg for more as he palmed her tits, wanted to taste her hot pussy melting under his tongue. But he had no idea if she was there yet, and the last thing he wanted to do was lose it and rush her. She’d only just decided, officially, to do this at all.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, “Slow down, Chlo.”

She stopped completely, let go, and stepped away, her gaze awkwardly avoiding his. In an instant, she was stiff and self-conscious. Not what he’d wanted. It was so not what he’d wanted that he had to resist the urge to whine like a dog. Instead, he caught her hand and dragged her back into his arms. “Don’t do that,” he said against her hair. “This is your spot now. Okay?”



Chloe hadn’t known it was possible to go from mildly embarrassed to melting like goo, but apparently all it took was five short words. This is your spot now.