Chapter 13
Kip
Of all the bad ideas in the long, proud history of bad ideas, this one is gunning for a spot at the top of the podium.
He sighs quietly beside me, the sound rough with sleep. Or maybe not.
“You’re still awake,” he says into the dark.
“Observant.”
A pause. Then he speaks again, gentler. “Can’t switch off?”
I let out a long breath. “Something like that.”
Sheets rustle, and he turns, close enough that I can sense him more than see him.
“You overthink everything,” he says in the same careful tone he used in the pub right before everything went off the rails.
My chest gives a small, traitorous squeeze that I try to ignore. “Occupational hazard.”
There’s a barely-there laugh. Then his hand finds my arm, his touch light, meant to be casual, but not casual at all. A shiver runs through me.
“Try this,” he says. “Breathe in.”
“Hutch—”
“Humor me.”
I do. I breathe in, and his thumb moves once, slow against my skin, and suddenly the air feels heavy with things we haven’t said.
He shifts closer. “Better?”
I should pull away. I don’t. My voice comes out hoarse. “Not exactly.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I was afraid of that.”
There’s a beat—one heartbeat, then another—and the world blurs, leaving only us.
His breath catches—mine already has—and for a moment we float there, suspended in something that feels too fragile to touch. His eyes flick down, then up again, and I swear the whole world narrows to that single movement.
“Is this what I think it is? Are you—?”
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. Not a challenge, just a plea. And an answer to my unfinished question.
I should stop him. God, I should. But my body has already decided for me, leaning in until I can feel his mouth hover over mine, daring me to move first.
The smallest sound escapes him, an exhale that’s laced with surrender, and then it’s nothing but heat and inevitability, every thought I have reduced to him.
When I finally move, it’s not careful. It’s desperate, something wound tight inside me snapping loose.
His warmth seeps through the sheets, through me, until I can’t tell which heartbeat’s mine.
He’s close now, his soap clean in the air between us, threaded with the faint trace of motor oil that never quite leaves him.
It’s steady, grounded, so completely him—and it splits something open in my chest.
I turn my head before I can stop myself. The movement brings us nose to nose, breath mingling, his eyes darker in the dim light. For a second, neither of us says a word. The air crackles with tension, taut and charged.
“This is a bad idea,” I manage huskily.
“Probably,” he says. But he doesn’t move.
There’s a question in the air, an invitation, or maybe a warning, and I’m the one who answers it. My hand finds his shoulder, solid and firm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not restrained. It’s days of pressure bursting all at once, every unsaid thing turning to heat. He tastes like toothpaste, minty and fresh, and when his hand slides to the back of my neck, I forget why I ever thought breathing was important.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Still think it’s a bad idea?”
“Absolutely,” I rasp. And then I’m kissing him again, hard enough that thinking stops being an option.
“Shirt off,” I pant when our lips break apart. “Need to feel you.”
His mouth curls, a little wild. “So now you’re okay with me in only my knickers?”
“I’d be more okay with you out of them, too.”
We make quick work of our clothes, desperate to close the distance that’s been killing us since our almost-kiss in the pub.
Christ, he’s beautiful, even in the half-light.
Bigger than me all over. Broad shoulders, strong arms, the kind of body that feels built to lean on.
And where my chest is smooth thanks to hours of diligent manscaping, he’s got a light dusting of coppery hair I want to rake my fingers through.
He sucks in a shaky breath then releases it, making a sound that’s caught between a laugh and a moan. “As much as I appreciate the visual appraisal, I thought the objective was to touch.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. I start by exploring those sexy shoulders, moving down his arms and tracing the strength there, trying to memorize him with my fingertips.
Then I give in to the urge to map the hills and valleys of his chest, following the trail of hair down the center until his muscles tense under my palm.
Through it all he’s remarkably restrained, almost vibrating with the effort not to move as he lets me take my time with him.
Eventually, I reward his patience, reaching down between his legs to wrap my hand around his hard length.
It’s hot and pulsing and, like everything else about him, bigger than I expected.
I’m talking cancel-all-your-weekend-plans big.
“Fuck, Kip,” Hutch grits out, hips jerking once before he stills.
I hold back a little, trying not to smile. “Is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?”
He jerks his hips again, grinding into my palm. “What do you think?”
“I think we’re only just getting started.”