Page 143 of Fake it ’Til Fall

That word hits harder than it should.

I lower her onto the bed and follow her down.

The mattress dips beneath us, and for one strange second, I can feel the line we’re crossing.

Daisy’s fingers trace the ink on my ribs, the old scars at my shoulder, the places hockey left behind. She doesn’t ask. She just looks, then touches, and every part of me that expects judgment doesn’t know what to do with her tenderness.

“Your body tells a story,” she says softly.

“It’s not a good one.”

Her eyes lift. “It’s your story. That already makes it yours, and you should be proud of it.”

The words settle somewhere I don’t have protection. I kiss her before she can see too much.

When my hands find the clasp of her bra, I stop. “Yes?”

Her answer is a nod first, then a breathless, impatient, “Yes, Forrest.”

I open it slowly anyway.

She makes a noise of protest, soft and irritated. “Are you always this controlled?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Not right now.”

Her mouth parts.

That gets her.

I drag the straps down her arms, watching her watch me. Watching the moment confidence leaves her face and want takes its place.

“You’re gorgeous.”

Her eyes close for half a second. “That’s very unfair of you.”

“Why?”

“Because I was prepared for sarcasm. Not sincerity. Rude, honestly.”

I bend and kiss the center of her chest. “You want sarcasm?”

“I want . . .” She stops.

I lift my head.

There it is. The thing neither of us can joke past.

Daisy swallows. Her fingers slide into my hair, not pulling, just holding on. “I want you to keep looking at me like that.”

The request wrecks me.

I kiss her again, then lower my mouth to her breast.

Her body reacts before she can cover it. Her back arches. Her fingers tighten in my hair. A soft, broken sound leaves her, and she immediately turns her face toward the pillow like she can hide from me while I’m learning the taste of her skin.