“That kiss suggested differently.”
“I wasn’t planning on kissing you, but you looked so…” I press my lips together, unwilling to finish.
His eyebrows climb his forehead. “So…?”
I dare myself to say it and then surprise myself when I do.
“Hot,” I blurt.
“You’re the hot one, Firecracker. By the way, do you still like that nickname better than coach?”
“Much.”
He grins, pleased.
“Are you on your way out?” he asks. Talk about an abrupt subject change.
“It’s after six,” I say, when what I should have said was yes. Or no. Hell, I don’t know.
He hums in his throat. The noncommittal sound doesn’t clue me in to what he’s thinking.
“You’ve had a busy week,” I say. “I can see how you would forget…things. Why don’t I head out and plan on seeing you Monday.” I stand. He stands with me. He’s no longer smiling.
“You think I forgot?”
“Didn’t you?” I whisper.
“You said no work hours. You’ve hustled me out of here every day to go jogging at five. You made the hastiest of escapes afterward.”
“You stopped acting interested,” I accuse. “I didn’t want to be presumptuous.” I hate arguing. I hate that I might have been wrong—might still be wrong.
He shakes his head. It’s almost a sad shake, one that has me quaking down to my toes.
Crap. I was wrong. He was being nice, hoping I’d forget the promises he made over breakfast. The sincerity in his eyes is too much to take. I wonder if Trish called him this week and wormed her way back into his life. She’s sad about her mom, and as a guy who’s lost parents, he can sympathize. They’ve probably forged some unbreakable connection. I can’t fault him for it. I might feel the same way in his position.
What’s between us was only temporary anyway. It was a fantasy. I’ll take my one Benji orgasm and tuck his dirty-talking brunch speech away in the back of my mind. I’ll save them for future sexual encounters with myself. I’ll—
“Cris. You’re freaking out,” he states.
He’s right, so once again I go on the defensive.
“No, I’m not.” Bright smile.
“Yes. You are.” He’s calm. Too calm.
“I’m fine. I need to go home…and— What are you doing?” I ask, even though I know what he’s doing. I’m watching him do it.
My flimsy vinyl belt is open and he’s unbuttoning my jeans. The zipper goes next. My mind on his recent reunion with Trish, I say, “You don’t have to do this.”
“Wrong. You don’t have to let me do this. But knowing how good it’s going to feel for me to do what I’m about to do to you, I strongly suggest you let me do this.”
“I remember the loveseat.”
He nods. “So do I. But I’m not going to do that. I’m going to do something better.”
He shoves my jeans past my hips. The rain falls faster outside, giving way to a rumble of thunder as a storm rolls in. The one within me feels the same: volatile, overwhelming. I’m not going to argue. The heat in his eyes promises the same good things his mouth just promised.
“Like?” I whisper.