I want is for you to get some weird infection from his snot and blood splashing into a hangnail or torn cuticle on your hand.”
I blink, processing what she said. “That’s . . . very specific.”
Her lips tilt down, not quite a frown but definitely taking that as an insult. “I told you, I create entire scenarios in my head, taking notes on real ones and pretend ones, adding details and drama at every turn. It’s what keeps my life—and my stories—interesting.”
“Here,” she says, opening her kit and taking out a little bottle of hand sanitizer and grabbing a napkin from the table. She uncaps the bottle and puts a dab on the single tiny cut she’s found, letting it ooze in and start to sting before she wipes it away. “And now . . . Neo.”
Out comes the Neosporin, and then a Band-Aid to top it all off. When she’s done, I flex my hand, nodding. “I think I’ll live.”
“Very funny,” Poppy says, not letting go of my hand. “Connor, what you did with Derrick . . .”
Her voice trails off, and she looks up at me with questions in her eyes. Wordlessly, she takes my uninjured hand and pulls it in closer, laying it on her damp T-shirt over her heart. I can feel the pounding thrum racing beneath my palm, and she’s leaned in so closely, I can hear the jaggedness of her breath.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I rasp, trying to focus on calming her nerves after seeing me that way. I shouldn’t care, but fuck knows, I do. She already knows I’m an asshole, but I don’t want her to think I’m a monster too.
Slowly, I lift my injured hand, praying she doesn’t flinch away. When she stays still, I push a wild lock of red hair behind her ear. I freeze when her eyes close and she leans into my touch. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m not,” she whispers as she opens her eyes. She turns into my hand, looking at the bandage before pressing a gentle kiss just above it. Her lips against my skin are so soft I think I might’ve imagined it, but the feel of her mouth anywhere on me sends electricity shooting through my veins.
“Poppy.” It’s more of a sound than a word, a rough growl deep in my throat.
She releases my injured hand to cover the one on her chest with both of hers, holding me there. “My heart is racing, but not because I was scared. Or not scared of you. I was scared for you. But I didn’t need to be, did I?” She swallows thickly, and I don’t know what I say, but it must be the right thing because she goes on. “Thank you for protecting me when I jumped in half-cocked.”
Her lips lift as she uses my words to describe herself, but she’s pressing my hand lower on her chest to the warm breast beneath.
Totally on instinct, my hand curves, cupping and molding itself to the soft weight, and I can feel the pebble of her nipple against my palm. I knead her flesh, learning and memorizing her responses.
“You’re a hot mess, Poppy,” I growl honestly, standing up and pulling her with me. I press her against the countertop, caging her with my arms on either side. “But nobody says shit about you as long as I’m around.”
She gasps, and I capture the sound with a kiss, pressing my lips to hers to feel the velvety softness. It’s scary because the only reason I’m doing this is because . . . I want her.
Desperately.
She moans hungrily, reaching up to cup the back of my head and pull me closer. Her tongue takes the initiative this time, demanding entrance, and we twist around each other, the kiss quickly becoming hot, erotic . . . and very, very serious.
Before was a cover, a necessary tool to hide the drama from my family. This is not a cover or pretend. This is hot, sexy, and most of all, real. Which is what makes me stop, pulling away to hold myself against the other countertop even if every cell in my body is saying to take what Poppy offers and give her what she wants. What we both want.
But I don’t do real, ever. It’s too dangerous . . . for me and for Poppy.
“I can’t. We can’t,” I pant, my body fighting my every syllable. “I’m no good for you, Poppy.”