Page 146 of Property of Bob

“Old habits.”

“Thought I was mostly Bob now.”

“You are.”

“Mostly?”

I smiled. “Do you want to keep arguing about your name right now?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

I pulled him back to me, and he laughed against my mouth.

A minute later, we were sitting on the edge of the bed, kissing while I worked at the button of his jeans.

My fingers stopped.

Bob looked down. Then at me.

“What?”

I hesitated.

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to ask me again.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m fine.”

“I just—”

“Doll.”

“What?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

He kissed me, and I let myself believe him. Because he did seem fine, more than fine. His movements weren’t weak or hesitant. He wasn’t struggling to breathe, wasn’t pale, wasn’t trying to hide that he needed to sit down. He was just Bob. A Bob who was still recovering, yes, but also a man who clearly wanted me.

And I really fucking wanted him.

We took our time. There wasn’t any reason not to.

I pushed his jeans open and found him already hard, the heat of him surprising even through the cotton of his boxers. Bob made a low sound against my mouth, and I stroked him once, twice, learning the shape of him, and the way his breath caught when my thumb pressed just so.

“Christ,” he muttered, and kissed me harder.

Our clothes disappeared slowly between touches that made me forget about everything outside the room. The notes. The fax. The campground. The killer. All of it faded until there was only the warm weight of his body, the roughness of his hands sliding under my shirt, and the way he paused to look at me when I lay back against the mattress.

He settled over me, and I ran my hands over his shoulders, down his arms. Strong. Warm. Real.