Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(102)

“What about you?” he asks, searching my eyes, too.

I nod. “Very all right.”

His smile grows. “Good.”

“We can tell the friends, too,” I blurt.

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.”