Page 189 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I glance around the living room, mainly to avoid Oliver’s glare. Why could I curl up next to him on a hospital bed, allow him to walk me to and from school every day, and balk at this? Sitting in his living room with him? Not even alone.

“I—”

“Shush,” he groans. “Just stop. I don’t know what you want me to say except sorry, mi nena. But I will apologize until I run out of breath if it just means you’ll stay.”

Oh.

“This isn’t weird for you?” I confirm. “You’re the one who wanted to walk away from me.”

He laughs and grimaces, touching his ribcage, but the laugh keeps coming. “Pinche mierda. You know how to focus on the negative. I was ready to walk away because of how much pain I’ve put you through. I didn’t want—I don’t want to walk away from you.”

I meet his gaze. “You don’t?”

“No. You invited me up to make Mexican hot chocolate. You really can’t get rid of me now.”

I smile, and a weight lifts off my shoulders. Never mind that he’s injured and I’m broken, and there are two other guys vying for my attention. I cross the room and carefully straddle him, barely letting my weight rest on his legs.

He grips my hips, though, and pulls me down.

I brush his hair back, careful to avoid the stitches, and lean in.

Our lips touch. It’s better than expected. Like a release of pain from my bones. It all just evaporates, and it takes me a long moment to realize this is more healing than I could’ve anticipated.

Forgiveness.

I forgive him for scaring me. For acting how he did.

I kiss him and I tell him with my lips that I forgive him, and in return I ask for forgiveness back.

He cups the back of my head. It takes all of my willpower not to shift my hips and grind forward. I want to, as thrills of electricity wind through my body and spark between my legs. Instead, I run my tongue along the seam of his lips. When he opens for me, I take advantage. I slide my tongue into his mouth, tasting him. Exploring him like I don’t actually know him.

In a lot of ways, this feels like a first kiss.

Tentative but entirely focused.

His tongue tangles with mine, gently pushing my tongue back into my mouth and joining. Feeling and tasting and exploring in all the ways I just did to him.

His teeth graze my lower lip, and I groan. His hands are on my hips, and his fingers dig into my skin like he’s losing control of his willpower, too. I don’t know where to touch him that won’t hurt. My hands settle on his biceps, and I squeeze to keep myself from drifting.

Hurting him is the last thing I want.

And yet I can’t tear myself away.

Our lips slide together, and it creates this symphony in my head. A sound so crazy and musical that I just want to live here in it for a while.

Penn and Carter bring my emotions back. They beat away the numbness.

But this… kissing Oliver makes me forget I was ever numb in the first place.

“Wow,” Penn says.

We jerk apart. I keep my gaze locked on Oliver’s face as soon as my eyes flutter open, and I catch the dazed, starstruck expression before he wipes it away.

I wish he wouldn’t wipe it away. I want to see it again, to take a picture and frame it, because I did that to him. And that causes me immeasurable pleasure—or maybe it’s just that I don’t know anyone else who’s effected like that.

By me.

“We leave you for two minutes and you’re making out like teenagers,” he continues. He’s got two beers in his hand, and he drops back into his seat. “But by all means, continue.”