Christopher smiles his widest yet, eyes sparkling, warm and proud. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” I turn toward the door, focused on the lock, then stop, turning back. “Bea’s actually at work now, so we have the place to ourselves for a bit.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Is that why you were hustling me out the door, so you could sneak in here and avoid the walk of shame with me?”
“I was hustling you out the door because I wasn’t sure if you’d want them to know. I wanted to give you an out and not have them be here when we were.”
He glares at me, folding his arms across his chest. “Kate, I’d shout from the tallest skyscraper in this city what you mean to me, if you’d let me.”
Oh God, my blush. “Well, now I know. But I didn’t then. That was why I was nagging you about needing to go and to stop beautifying in front of the mirror—”
“I was shaving.”
“I liked the scruff,” I blurt. “A lot.”
He tips his head, his gaze warm. “You did?”
I nod. “I liked how it made you look different and also . . . the same. I can’t explain it.”
Except that’s how this feels. Like it’s you. Like it’s nothing like you. Like it’s better than I could have ever imagined.
“And I like how it feels,” I admit, my cheeks heating.
One of those slow, wicked grins lifts his mouth. He leans against the wall beside the door and crosses his feet at the ankles, oozing sensual self-satisfaction. “And where exactly do you like how it feels?”
I slug his arm. “Stop it. You know exactly where.”
“Mm-hmm, but I like hearing it.”
“Good grief.” I turn my back on him, fumbling with the key as I try to unlock the door before I do something silly like tackle him in the hallway and kiss him to death.
“Kate,” he says, stepping behind me, dropping his chin on my shoulder. He nuzzles into my hair.
“Yes, Christopher.”
“When we tell everyone. I want to tell them . . . that you’re mine and I’m yours. That we’re together exclusively.”
My heart pinwheels in my chest, joy spinning it fast and faster.
“Do you . . .” He clears his throat softly, then breathes me in, his nose buried in my hair. “Do you want that, too?”
I smile so wide my cheeks hurt, then glance over my shoulder, making our noses brush. “Yes. So much.”
His smile is dazzling as he leans in and kisses me.
When I pull away and refocus on the door, about to cross this threshold, bringing my first-ever lover and partner inside, it hits me. The reality of all this, its immense, overwhelming, terrifying wonderfulness, brings me to a standstill.
“Kate?” Christopher rubs my back gently. “What’s up?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
“Hey.” He wraps his arm around my waist. “Don’t do that. Say what you feel. This is what we do now, Kate. We talk.”
“Is that what we do?” I tease, struggling with the key. “Talk?”
I feel his grin against my neck as he kisses me there, his hands wandering higher up my waist, toward my breasts. “Well, that and other things.”
“?‘Other things’ is right, like me cussing at this goddamn door whose lock is my villain origin story.”
Christopher sighs, abandoning his seduction, and wraps his hand around mine, helping me jiggle the key once, then flip it to unlock. Pushing open the door, he holds it for me.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
As I toss the keys onto the kitchen counter, Christopher shuts the door behind me, then strolls down the hall straight toward my room.
“Hey!” I scramble after him. “We had a deal, Petruchio!”
“Oh, I remember,” he calls over his shoulder. He stops at the door to my bedroom and makes a point of dropping the bag right outside it. “I offered to negotiate and you declined. I warned you it was a mistake.” Turning the handle, he opens the door and walks over the bag, right into my room.
“Christopher!” I run after him, hopping over the laundry bag sitting precisely outside my door, as promised. “What the hell!”
“It’s a messy room, Kate.” He shrugs, standing in the middle of the bedroom, looking like a prince in a pauper’s hovel, surrounded by my chaos. “So what?”
I glare at him, my cheeks heating. “It’s my messy room.”
He stares at me. “So let me see it. You think I care? You think it’s going to scare me away?”
My eyes prick with tears. “I don’t know.”
“So, what are we doing, then? Hiding from each other, still? You’re just going to let me fuck you—”
“Don’t call it that,” I snap. “It’s more than that.”
“Exactly,” he says, stepping smoothly over an empty granola box. “Which means I get to see and want you not just when you’re naked in my arms and cute as hell wearing my clothes, but when you’re feeling emotional about life and work, when your room’s a mess and when you’re drowning in dirty laundry.”
“Easy for you to say!” I gesture up and down him. “You’ve got it all together.”
He lifts his eyebrows, then pauses, tipping his head. “You think I have it all together?”
I snort, but I’m not amused.
Gently, he takes me by the elbow and tugs me into his arms. “I don’t have it all together, Kate.”
“You have a kajillion dollars. A straightforward career. A beautiful home. A knack for doing laundry. And a brain that doesn’t make life delightful but also deeply frustrating sometimes.”
“Is that right?” He peers down at me. “Kate, you more than most know how unfair and unmerited generational wealth is. My dad was a shrewd businessman who died young and left me a good company—that’s hardly something I did. As for my house, again, inherited, and it’s not beautiful by many people’s standards, just yours, which, frankly, is all I care about.” He bites his cheek. “And as for my brain . . . it is deeply, deeply frustrating. Often.”
I stare up at him, noticing for the first time since we hustled out of his house the smudges under his eyes, the pinch of pain at the corners of his mouth. “And have you told me how your brain is actually, truthfully feeling today?” I ask.
He glances away, scrubbing at his neck. “Not . . . exactly.”
“Huh. How’s that little quid pro quo lecture feeling now?”
“Kate . . .” He sighs heavily. “Fine. My head fucking hurts. There, you happy?”
“Happy? No.” I run a hand along his arm. “I hate that you hurt. That I can’t do shit about it. But I’m grateful that you told me.”
“Hmph.”
I smile up at him, gently taking over rubbing his neck. A little groan leaks out of him. “Sharing your mess is easier said than done, isn’t it?”
Christopher wraps his arms around me and sets his chin on my head. “Yes.”
Hugging him back, I settle my head over his heart. “Tell me. Try.”
He sighs heavily. “My neurologist thinks I need to try a new medication, but who the hell knows if it’ll help or make things worse, so I’m holding off, dreading committing to that course of action. So, yeah, often lately and today, my head fucking hurts. I slept well with you when we slept, but I didn’t sleep enough. I feel like I’ve got tiny woodland creatures scratching at the backs of my eyeballs and my neck hurts, and I hate it. Because I want to tell you to put on your Badazz Feminist playlist at full volume and headbang to songs with you while we tackle this room’s mess, then I want to lay you down on your freshly made bed and give you a couple orgasms, and I’m not sure I can do any of that right now.”
“So we won’t,” I tell him, rubbing his back. “I will clear off my bed and put fresh sheets on it. And then you will get out of those fancy clothes and put on the comfy things you keep in your little Christopher drawer. You’ll take whatever meds might help you get a lead on your migraine, and we’ll nap or do whatever you need to ride it out. We’ll take turns. You took care of me when I spiraled out this morning. I’ll take care of you now. Deal?”
He swallows thickly, his cheek suddenly resting heavy on my head. “And here I thought I had a novice negotiator on my hands.”
I smile against his chest, then kiss right over his heart. “You should know by now, I’m a very fast learner.”
? THIRTY-SIX ?
Christopher