Page 12

Chapter twelve

Mandy

T he apartment door clicks open just as I finish highlighting another paragraph for the hundredth time. My highlighter squeaks across the page like it's as tired as I am.

I hear the thump of Nate’s duffel hitting the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of him cracking his neck. That was loud.

I call out from the guest room without looking up from my notes. "We win?"

"We did. Came back in the third. Townsend got a goal, I blocked a shot that probably cracked a rib, and Mikey fell into the penalty box trying to hop the boards."

I smile to myself but stay hunched over my flashcards.

A few seconds later, he appears in the doorway with two bottles of water, one already open. He tosses me the other.

"Nice assist," I say, catching it.

Nate grins, still in his post-game gear, sweatpants, a fitted Acers tee, baseball cap turned backward, and that low-key swagger that makes my brain short-circuit.

"We’re both putting in the work tonight," he says.

I gesture to the sea of flashcards and outlines. "Yeah, well, my opponent is Bar Exam v. Sanity, and I’m getting bodied."

Nate walks over, leans on the chair behind me, and peers at my notes. "You color-coded again. I’m terrified and impressed."

"Welcome to becoming a lawyer. We’re all just one paper jam away from a full breakdown."

He hums thoughtfully. "You’ve been hunched over this table for hours?"

"Yup. It's literally a pain in the neck."

His hands settle lightly on my shoulders. "Let me help."

I hesitate. "With torts or tension?"

"One’s easier than the other."

I exhale, and before I can argue, his thumbs press into the knots in my shoulders. Firm. Warm. Focused. I melt into the touch before I even realize I’m doing it.

"Jesus," I mutter. "That’s not fair."

"You’re wound up like a goalie in overtime."

"It’s bar prep. I’m allowed."

"Yeah, but you’re not alone in this. You’ve got me now."

The way he says it sends a ripple down my spine.

His thumbs work slow circles along the base of my neck, moving up toward the edge of my scalp. It’s innocent enough at first, but there’s heat underneath. A current.

I close my eyes.

He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath at my temple. "You smell like mint and stress."

"And you smell like AXE and ego."

He laughs. "Fair."

I glance over my shoulder again, teasing. "So… how do you celebrate after a win, usually?"

He smirks. "Cold beer and watching terrible movies I can quote by heart."

"Like what?"

"Point Break. Road House. Anything where someone gets thrown through a window. Helps burn off the post-game adrenaline, you know? Keeps me from bouncing off the walls all night."

I snort. "That explains so much."

"Hey, that stuff’s elite."

"So you're telling me your post-game recovery involves shirtless brawls and bad one-liners?"

He grins. "If I’m doing it right."

I laugh, leaning back into his hands. "And here I thought you’d be the type to come home and wind down with cartoons or video games, not… Patrick Swayze doing roundhouse kicks."

"I’m a mystery," he says. "Layers."

"Like an onion."

"Like a sexy, humble onion."

I laugh again, biting my lip to stifle it. He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear.

"What about you? What’s your post-study ritual?"

"Normally? Ice cream and one very judgmental episode of true crime."

"Judgmental how?"

"I talk to the screen. I yell at people. It’s therapeutic."

He grins. "Remind me not to commit a crime near you."

"Remind me not to hang out with a guy who thinks he can out-snark me."

"Too late," he says, his voice dropping as his hands flex at my shoulders. "You’re already losing."

"Am I?" I challenge.

His lips brush my jaw. "Completely."

I shift slightly under his hands, just enough to glance over my shoulder at him. "You’re really good at this, you know."

He dips his head, lips brushing my ear. "You have no idea what else I’m good at."

My breath hitches. "Is that a challenge?"

"Do you want it to be?"

I turn in the chair, eyes locking with his. "Maybe. Depends what I get if I win."

His mouth curves. "Anything."

My heart skids in my chest. "Bold offer."

He shrugs. "You bring out the risk-taker in me."

"I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one. Stay focused. No distractions."

"Then stop distracting me, Fields."

My lips part, caught between a laugh and something far more dangerous. "I’m not doing anything."

"Exactly. And it’s ruining me."

I turn slightly in the chair, and suddenly we’re face to face. I go still, every nerve suddenly on alert. His eyes drop to my lips.

The air shifts. Again.

I should stand up. I should create space. But instead, I stay perfectly still.

His fingers trail down my face and brush along my jaw.

I’m not breathing.

And then he kisses me.

His mouth takes mine like he owns it, confident, hungry, all heat and pressure. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s a kiss that says he’s done pretending he doesn’t want me, and every inch of me answers back with a yes I’m too breathless to say out loud.

I kiss him back. God help me, I kiss him back.

The chair scrapes as I stand and he pulls me into him.

My hands go to his solid, warm chest. His arms wrap around my waist, strong and sure, drawing me in until there’s nothing between us but heat and want.

The kiss deepens as his lips part mine with slow certainty, like he’s learning me, mapping each response.

My fingers slide up to his neck, anchoring there, as if letting go might unravel me completely.

He tilts his head slightly, his mouth moving with more skill now…

teasing, claiming. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but there’s a hunger beneath it, a quiet ache that says he’s been waiting to touch me like this.

I meet him with the same fire, answering every kiss like it’s the only language I’ve ever known. Time stalls. There’s just the warm press of him against me and the slow burn building between us, like the night itself is holding its breath.

"Damn," he breathes against my mouth. "You kiss like you mean it."

"I do," I murmur. "And you kiss like you’ve been waiting."

He smiles, lips brushing mine again. "I have."

"How long?"

"Since the hallway. That first day you moved in. You were holding a box and looked like you might murder someone with a highlighter. I was gone."

He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it. His fingers slip through mine, anchoring me in place while everything else around us drifts out of focus.

"You’re dangerous," I whisper.

"So are you," he says, his voice low and hoarse. "But I’ve never wanted a risk more."

My whole body flushes with warmth. With want. With the terrifying, wonderful awareness that I might never kiss anyone else the same way again.

He backs me toward the futon, one hand sliding up my side, the other finding my hip.

My pulse is everywhere. My brain is nowhere.

We sink down together, slow and weightless, the kiss never breaking.

I feel the soft give of the cushions beneath me, his body hovering just enough to keep us in that charged, breathless space.

The room fades. All I can feel is his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him pressing into every nerve ending like he’s rewriting how I experience touch.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmurs, lips brushing the corner of my mouth.

"Good crazy or bad crazy?"

His laugh is low and rough. "The kind where I can’t stop thinking about doing very bad things to you. The kind that’ll have you moaning my name and forgetting every single bar exam fact you ever learned."

"You say that like it’s a problem."

"It is," he whispers, kissing along my jaw, "because every time I try to keep things easy between us... you go and look at me like that."

"Like what?"

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Like you want me as much as I want you."

My breath catches. "What if I do?"

His hand slides up my back, slow and certain. "Then we’ve got a problem. Because I don’t think I’ll be able to stop at just one kiss."

His shirt rides up slightly, my fingers brushing bare skin. I gasp. He groans.

We break apart, just enough to look at each other. His eyes are dark. Searching. "Tell me to stop."

I don’t.

Not yet.

His lips find the curve of my neck, trailing fire across my skin. One of my hands finds his hair. The other presses to his chest, as if to steady myself, or maybe to memorize the shape of him.

We’re breathing hard now. Lost.

His hand moves from my hip, slow and reverent, sliding up beneath the hem of my shirt until his palm settles over my breast. The fabric is thin, and the touch is firm but careful, exploratory.

I forget to breathe for a second. I don’t stop him.

I can’t. My body arches into it, craving the pressure and the warmth.

But there’s tension in my chest, tight and coiled. I feel it even as I let him keep touching me, this war between want and warning pulsing behind my ribs.

He senses it. His hand stills, his thumb brushing gently across the curve of me, not demanding, just waiting.

My eyes find his.

He pulls back just enough to look at me again. "Mandy."

I press my forehead to his. "I want this. I do. But I can’t… not yet."

He nods instantly, pulling back, breathing like he just played a full game in overtime. "Okay."

I pull my shirt back down and smooth my hair. "Okay."

He runs a hand down his face, jaw tight with restraint. "You have no idea how badly I want to throw caution out the window and take you right here. But this doesn’t mean a thing unless you want it just as much, without hesitation."

My chest aches. "Thank you."

He leans in, presses a firm kiss to my forehead. "Just so we’re clear, I'm not backing off. Not until you tell me to."

And somehow, that makes it worse. Because I want him more than I want control.

I nod and start gathering my flashcards, but my hands are trembling.

And here's the problem.

Because every time I let him get closer, I don’t want space.

I want everything.

And I’m scared I’ll lose myself trying to have it.

What's worse is Allison would lose her mind if she knew.

So I shove the fear down. I sit back at the desk.

And I pretend like my body isn’t still humming where he touched me.

But the truth is, every time he touches me or looks at me like that, I want him more, even though I know he's a player, I'm a virgin, and my sister would kill us both.