Chapter Eighteen
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I like to call this: hot, not spicy.
Poem
“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning way back on Fox’s desk. The papers beneath me crinkle, and my hand slips on one, forcing me down to my elbow. “Scootch back over there, buster. This is Poem space.” Poem space that he is seriously in right now, having stood to loom over me—closely.
The butterflies in my stomach are living. They flurry about, taunting me with their joy.
“You wanted to play,” Fox murmurs, laying a hand on my cheek. “I’m playing.”
My lashes flutter in confusion. “I thought you didn’t want to play.”
He shrugs broad shoulders, feathers rippling beneath the short sleeves of his T-shirt. “I don’t want to play your game. My game is better.”
“Is it?” I choke as he closes the space between us, his free hand landing beside my hip to support his body weight as he all but lies on top of me.
I raise a hand to grasp his forearm in a vain attempt to stop his descent.
“I like my games better. My games involve a lot less… whatever this is. And a lot less of that look in your eye, which I don’t think I like all that much.
” Regardless of what insects in my stomach have to say about the subject.
“I don’t think I like all that much you tearing me down to my insecurities and throwing them in my face,” he responds, baring his teeth. “I suppose we’re both compromising on our desires today.”
“At least mine have a clear end goal. What are you hoping to gain right now?”
“The upper hand,” he answers.
Then.
Then.
Then!!!
He! Kisses! Me!
I squeak, turning my head before his lips can do more than graze mine, and he growls, shoving his hand into my hair and pulling me back. His lips don’t touch mine again, but they’re close, the warmth of his breathing mingling with mine. “That feel very brotherly?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I’m trying very hard not to acknowledge how that felt at all.
Fox is hot.
Fox is a hot man who just kissed me.
My heart stumbles over itself, and I whimper.
My stomach fairly riots, and I groan.
Fox’s eyes narrow. “You don’t want to play anymore?” he asks. “You want to concede your defeat and leave me alone now?”
“This is sexual assault,” I stutter. “You can’t do that.” It’s against the rules of the game.
His jaw clenches, then he’s four steps away, and I’m cold.
I’m really, really cold.
He curses, turning his back on me as he runs a hand angrily through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he grits immediately. I frown. Not because he doesn’t sound sorry—he does, along with disgusted at himself—but because I don’t want the apology.
My brows furrow. Why don’t I want the apology?
My stomach tingles, and a shiver racks my body.
Oh.
Oh.
I slide off the desk and approach him, backing him into a corner when he staggers to get away from me.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m so sorry, Poem. I swear that won’t happen again. I–I’ll leave, if you want me to. Run away like I’m so good at doing. I can’t believe I… I’m so sorry.” A line runs between his eyebrows, deepening with his shame.
I want to soothe it.
I want to take his apologies and throw them out the window.
I want to play.
“Shut up, Fox,” I murmur.
Then.
Then.
T. H. E. N.
I kiss him.