My stomach flops wildly, and I know he’s right. “Okay. No more running.”
His grip on my chin tightens. “You have a problem, you feel the need to run, you come to me and we’ll figure it out.”
I nod, but instantly know he’ll want the words. “Okay. I . . . I’ll come to you. I won’t run. I swear.”
“Good girl.” His touch turns soft, his thumb smoothing across my cheek.
“So you’re staying?” I ask again, needing to hear those words from him.
“Yes, I’m staying.”
“You’re sure?”
He nods again, a smile tugging away the serious expression he had only moments ago. “Yes. Because you’re here.”
“As simple as that?”
“Not everything has to be complicated, Holly. We don’t have to be complicated.”
Creighton releases his hold on me, but his eyes never leave mine. I’m processing what just passed between us. I open my mouth to say something, but words desert me completely. Instead I reach into a bag on the table and start removing the contents. I freeze when I pull out a box of Lucky Charms.
Staring at the brightly colored cereal box, I mumble, “You bought Lucky Charms?”
“I thought you liked them. You mentioned them in your first single.”
This time my stomach flops again, but it’s a completely new emotion fueling it. My reference to the cereal was one fleeting mention in the second verse. Most people probably wouldn’t really notice.
“You actually listened to the lyrics of my first single?”
Creighton straightens. “Holly, I’ve seen you perform live almost a dozen times. I know every word of every song at this point.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He turns, and instinctively I back up until my spine connects with the fridge.
He doesn’t touch me, just presses a palm to the fridge on either side of my head.
“Why does that surprise you? It shouldn’t.”
“I just figured that . . .”
“What?”
“That you watch me but don’t really pay attention. You’ve got more important things to think about.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, Holly, and I’m not going anywhere until you do.”
“Get what?”
“That you’re the most important thing in my life now.”
The box slips from my nerveless fingers and lands on the floor.
He smiles, but it’s more predatory than anything else. “See? You don’t believe me. But you will.”
My brain is trying to work. Trying—and failing.
Lifting a hand to my chin, Creighton tilts it up before lowering his mouth nearly to my lips. My breasts rise and fall, pressing against his chest, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
“Well, maybe your body believes me. I guess I’ll start there and work my way into convincing the rest of you.”
I expect him to crush his lips to mine, but he doesn’t. He brushes them lightly over my lips, his tongue darting out, teasing, tasting . . . seducing.
My hands find their way to his upper arms and curl into the soft cotton of his shirt, sliding upward and testing the thick muscles of his shoulders. The sweet, soft kiss is driving me out of my ever-loving mind, when all I really want to do is climb the man like a dang coconut tree.
Not that I’ve ever climbed a coconut tree, but those guys on TV make it look so freaking easy and cool, and you get the prize when you get to the top, which in this case, would be my pussy against Crey’s mouth, so that’s pretty much the same thing, right?
My mind spins, my inner thoughts turning into a crazy ramble.
Screw it.
I hop up and wrap my legs around Crey’s hips and practically attack him. I register the slight umph at the impact of my body slamming into his, and my legs attempt to squeeze the life out of him like some kind of anaconda, but I don’t care. I want him. Bad. Right now.
Creighton’s head moves back an inch, but my hands are already tangling in his dark hair and fusing his lips to mine. I’m on the offensive here. I’m the aggressor. And it’s glorious.
Because I know, deep down, I’m only in charge because he lets me. Which gives me a thought. I release his hair and pull my mouth away from his.
“How do you want to convince me? Because right now, I’d like you to convince me against the kitchen table.”
Creighton’s whole chest rumbles with his chuckle. “Jesus, woman. I fucking love you.”
We both freeze, and the words seem to hang in the air between us.
“What did you say?” I whisper.
His jaw tenses, his stare intensifying. “I said I fucking love you.”
It’s not eloquent, it’s not elegant, and it’s definitely not fancy. It’s raw and real and spur of the moment.
“Do you mean it?” I ask quietly.
His dark eyes spear straight to the heart of me, and he lifts a hand to cup my cheek again. “Of course I mean it. I rarely say anything I don’t mean.”