Page 17 of Poetry On Ice
His lips stop quivering and turn up at one corner. It’s a cocky grin that costs him. His bottom lip splits open again, making him wince.
“Are you going to glue me up, or what?” he asks, pressing a piece of gauze on the wound to stem the bleeding.
“Fine,” I snap, “but sit down, stop being so tall, and keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll put your head through the wall.”
“Aw, did I make you mad? Did I make you question things you usually try to ignore?”
“What did I just say about talking?”
“Uh, nothing? You said to sit down, stop being tall, and keep my hands off you.”
Shit.
He’s right.
“Well, stop talking too, or, or I’ll glue your lips shut.”
He emits a low, muffled sound. It comes from his chest, not his throat or mouth. It sounds almost like he’s saying, “Hmph.” If I didn’t know him better, I might be inclined to think it’s his version of a laugh.
He holds his hands up at his sides, and when I don’t move, he finally gets the message and tucks them behind his back with a self-satisfied smirk. The movement causes his T-shirt to stretch tightly over his pecs, and sweet Jesus, it’s hot in here.
What’s up with the air in this place?
My palms are slick, and in the mirror, I see tiny beads of sweat glisten on my forehead. I stand as far away as possible from Decker and take his jaw in my hand. His beard is thick and soft. Softer than I thought it would be. I mean, softer than I’d have thought it would be if I was the type of guy who thought about things like how a man’s beard might feel.
I run my thumb over his bottom lip, squeezing the soft, warm flesh together and swiping a healthy stripe of glue across the cut. I look away as the glue sets, keeping hold of his lip, squeezing a little harder than strictly necessary as I count slowly to sixty.
By the time I let go, the thermostat is well and truly fucked. It must be at least one hundred degrees in the bathroom. If I didn’t hate complaining so much, I’d be inclined to call reception and get them to send someone up here. That’s how bad it is.
“All done?” He purses his lips and raises his brows. It’s an almost-sweet look that doesn’t half suit him.
I toss the glue into the sink without bothering to put the lid on and get the hell out of there.
The rest of the suite is as hot as the bathroom.
I open the door to let some fresh air in, not caring when itthunksagainst the wall, and all but throw Decker’s ass out.
He stands in the doorway, arms at his sides, and looks at me as if waiting for something.
“How ’bout thank you?” I suggest. “How ’bout sorry I woke you, and I owe you big time. How ’bout that?”
I have a feeling he doesn’t like my tone because his eyes narrow and he leans in as if he means to headbutt me. My reactions are slow from the excessive heat in my suite and before I have time to step back, there’s a hand on the back of my head holding me so gently my entire body goes lax.
Hetilts his head and leans in slowly. So slowly, I can’t breathe. My eyes close and my lips part, though I don’t think I made a conscious decision to do either.
An intense sting makes my eyes water. A sharp, bruising pinch has me clamping my hand to my mouth. “You fuck!” I hiss. “You bit me! What’s wrong with you? What the hell did you do that for?”
He exhales and his shoulders drop. “’Cause,” he says with regret, “I’m going to kiss you, and”—he takes my head in both hands and holds me firmly in place as he closes the space between us—“I want it to hurt you as much as it’s going to hurt me.”
Our eyes are open. Neither of us blinks. He moves so near to me that my vision blurs and my mouth drops open.
He kisses me hard, sweeping his tongue against mine with a force that leaves me gasping around it. His hand is still on the back of my neck, fingers knotted in my hair, pulling, making me arch back, forcing me to yield to him more.
My bones turn to liquid, and I flail against him, fisting his clothes, pushing him away and pulling him closer as I thrust my tongue into his mouth.
I slump against the doorframe when he pulls away. He steps back and eyes me thoughtfully, pleased with hiswork. He runs his thumb across his bottom lip tentatively, flinches, and says, “Asshole,” before turning and walking away.
“Decker!”