There but for the grace of God go I is how he ended it, prompting no follow-up questions to delve into sordid details.
Gage turns away from the sink, drying his hands on the towel before tossing it on the counter. “All done.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I admonish with a teasing smile.
“But I wanted to. You cooked such a great meal, I wanted to do something for you.”
I take another sip of my wine and study him over the rim. “You know the age-old rule, he who cooks does not do the dishes, and he who eats, does? That relies on the concept of fairness. Equality. A partnership.”
Gage settles against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not following.”
I shrug. “You didn’t say you did the dishes because it was fair. You said you did the dishes because you wanted to do something nice. It’s a world of difference.”
Gage chuckles and nods. “I suppose it is. I like doing things for you.”
“I like doing things for you too,” I murmur almost shyly, ducking my head for another sip. The wine is relaxing me.
“I didn’t mention it earlier, but I really like your sweater. It’s pretty.”
The blush comes hot and fast, and I almost choke on my drink as my eyes fly to meet his. While his gaze stays level with mine, I’m sure at some point he took notice of the V that doesn’t dip quite low enough to show cleavage but it’s close.
“It means a lot that you’re sharing yourself with me,” he says softly.
And he’s not talking about cleavage or the style and fit of my clothing.
He’s talking about the fact I’m not covering my scars.
I smile, very much okay with him bringing up the subject. After all, I intentionally wore this sweater without a scarf to show I feel comfortable enough with him to do so.
“It’s hard,” I admit with a small smile. “But you’re the first person outside of Emory to not let me hide. To force me to examine things about myself and take risks.”
“I’m glad that you trust me enough to do so.” Gage uncrosses his arms and presses his palms on the edge of the counter beside his hips. “Listen, my sister Marianne and her husband are coming in week after next to visit and catch a game. I’d really like you to meet them.”
Wow. Okay, that’s big. And fast. And yet I’m so flattered, I want to cry.
To ensure the tears don’t come, I make a joke. “I’d love to. I’m glad you find me worthy.”
Gage pushes off from the counter and stands before me. I straighten but still have to tip my head back to meet his turbulent expression. “It’s got nothing to do with you being worthy.” He takes the wineglass from my hand and sets it on the counter without breaking eye contact. “It has everything to do with me being worthy.”
“Excuse me?” I say, my voice hoarse with emotion.
“You… sharing yourself with me, scars and all, means you find me worthy to be let in. That means something to me. It means enough that I want to share something back with you, and the most important thing is my family.”
Cupping my face with his hands, he peers down at me. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
A quavering breath escapes my lips, and my heart kicks into a staccato drumbeat of nerves, excitement, and… desire.
Yes, desire.
Gage touches his mouth gently to mine. I push off the counter and rise up to meet the kiss, my hands going to his chest where I can feel his own heart thrumming under my fingertips.
The gentle pressure of his mouth becomes more insistent, and I let him in. Gage tilts his head and kisses me harder.
No… he claims my mouth with his. Shows me just how hungry he is.
I get swept away in a maelstrom of sensations and emotions, and my eyes flutter closed. One of his hands curves around the nape of my neck to grip my hair. It’s a move of domination, and an ache forms between my legs.
Tugging on my hair, he forces my head back, allowing him to layer kisses over my jawline and neck.
On the left side—the side that’s normal. His lips move over my smooth and unblemished skin, eliciting goose bumps. My fingers dig into his chest muscles.
Gage lifts his mouth and my eyes open. I find him staring at me with such intensity, I want to bolt. With his right hand still lightly cupping my head, he slowly—almost reverently—brings up his left hand toward my face. I watch with wide eyes as he tucks the hair on my scarred side behind my ear.
My breath catches, but I don’t tense up. I force myself to have patience to see what he’ll do, inherently trusting this will be okay.
That he will be respectful of me.
Gage’s eyes move from mine to skim across my cheekbones and then down to my jaw and neck. His index finger traces the scarred flesh so gently, I can barely feel it.
And then he dips his head and kisses me right at the corner of my jaw.
That damaged skin doesn’t have the same nerve sensitivity as the rest, and yet I feel the touch of his lips as clearly as I did on the other side. Blood racing and heart slamming, the ache between my legs intensifies. Gage brushes his lips down my neck, and it’s crazy because I know I shouldn’t be feeling it in such exquisite detail, but I do. The softness of his mouth and the rush of his breath over the scars… a tiny moan slips from my mouth.
It’s that sound that does it.
Gage growls, hauls me up with one arm around my back and the other under my ass, and spins me toward the living room. My legs encircle his hips and my arms go around his neck to hold him tight as I kiss him hard.
For a minute, I think he might veer into my room, and I’m not opposed to that. Scared and nervous, but not opposed.
Instead, he goes to my couch, presses one knee down on the cushion, and lowers me to my back. My legs loosen from around his hips as his hands press down into the cushions above my shoulders. He hovers over me, looming large and intense. Gage’s face is flushed, and I don’t have to look down between our bodies to see the erection straining at his pants. I felt it as he was carrying me.
“We need to slow this down a little,” he says.
“But we haven’t done anything,” I point out, breathless.
“We will if you keep kissing me like you just did,” he grumbles and then gives me a mischievous grin. “I’m absolutely not having sex with you tonight, no matter how much you beg me to take your virtue.”
I laugh and reach up to tug playfully at his shirt. Smiling, I whisper, “I want you to know, it’s incredibly sexy that you’re so careful and respectful of me.”
Gage’s expression sobers. “I want you to know you’re not just a hookup. And if we do have sex, I’m not going to disappear on you. It will be meaningful because I’m already invested in you, and I think you’re invested in me too.”
“See,” I say in mock exasperation, “you say things like that, and all it makes me want to do is have sex with you.”
Those full lips curve upward. “How about we cuddle instead?”
It’s relief that I identify as my main emotion at his words. Granted, slight disappointment because his kisses have flared to life a part of me I thought long dead. But I’m also so scared at being rejected at some point—despite trusting Gage’s intentions—that I’m glad he’s slowing things down.