Then again, so did she. She was nodding slowly, but her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “There is a difference. I look out for my own safety all the time. Constantly. That’s not what this is. The urge I have to avoid this,” she murmured, almost to herself, “it’s like … it’s like going to bed at nine sharp every night. Like refusing to make plans, even with my sisters. Like staying inside for a year because I don’t think I can handle catching a cold.”

He blinked, distracted for a second. “You did that?”

Her smile was a quicksilver flash. “The first few years were not good, Red. I was not good. This list isn’t the first challenge I’ve had to set myself.” She wet her lips, her eyes drifting away from his face as she sank into her thoughts. “But I always succeed. One way or another. I always take the next step, no matter how long it takes.”

“Of course you do,” he whispered. “You’re a tough motherfucker, remember?”

She looked up at him again, her smile wider this time, more certain, like it was going nowhere. Her eyes glittered with something that made his heart feel light in his chest. “That’s true. I am. And I want … you. All of you. I haven’t done this sort of thing in a while, you know. But I’d like to try. Would you?” Her gaze, dark and serious, felt like a weight—the satisfying kind, the weight of expectation that meant someone might, almost, trust you not to fuck up. His whole body went rigid with anticipation, the kind of oh-shit giddy nervousness he usually felt before an exhibit.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Chloe. Yes.”

She smiled. And then she kissed him.

It was the slightest brush of her lips over his, once, twice, three times. So soft, so gentle, his heart ached. He held his breath and closed his eyes and bent down for her, so she wouldn’t hurt herself. His fingers sank into the lush curves of her hips for one desperate moment before he forced himself to relax, to not maul her like a caveman. At least, not until she asked him to.

Her fingers fluttered at his jaw, like she wanted to touch him but wasn’t sure how to do it right. He wanted to tell her that any way she touched him would be right, but he’d rather step on a rusty fucking nail than break this barely-there kiss. Her lips brushed his again and the sensation seared through him like a shooting star, the kind that streaked the sky for long moments after it had passed. She tasted like minty toothpaste, sharp-tongued sarcasm, surprising hesitance. She was killing him. She was absolutely killing him.

Red slid a hand over her jaw and tipped her head back. She sighed as he slanted his mouth over hers and gave her the sweetest kiss he was capable of, because that’s what she’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he sank into the mouth he’d dreamed about. When he felt the edge of her glasses against his cheek, he pulled away to let her take them off—but she followed with a sound of protest. That indecisive hand of hers finally stopped hesitating; she threaded her fingers into his hair and tugged, pulling him closer, trapping him. Apparently, she didn’t care about her glasses.

His hand slid down from her jaw to her throat, just because he wanted to feel more of her skin. She hummed low and pulled his hair again, setting off flashes of pleasure like camera pops behind his eyelids. Her tongue licked shyly at his and arousal shot up his spine, bright white and urgent scarlet. She pressed herself against him, full breasts and soft belly and breathless pants into his mouth. One of her hands tugged at his T-shirt before slipping beneath. The glide of her fingertips over his abdomen made him moan like she was sucking him off. Touch me. Want me. Be mine.

He liked to let her lead, but God, someday soon, he’d touch her, too. Anywhere. Everywhere. He wanted to feel her stomach tremble under his lips when she sucked in a breath, wanted to hear her beg for more as he palmed her tits, wanted to taste her hot pussy melting under his tongue. But he had no idea if she was there yet, and the last thing he wanted to do was lose it and rush her. She’d only just decided, officially, to do this at all.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, “Slow down, Chlo.”

She stopped completely, let go, and stepped away, her gaze awkwardly avoiding his. In an instant, she was stiff and self-conscious. Not what he’d wanted. It was so not what he’d wanted that he had to resist the urge to whine like a dog. Instead, he caught her hand and dragged her back into his arms. “Don’t do that,” he said against her hair. “This is your spot now. Okay?”

Chloe hadn’t known it was possible to go from mildly embarrassed to melting like goo, but apparently all it took was five short words. This is your spot now.

Her voice muffled, since she was currently plastered against Red’s wonderful chest, she said simply, “Oh.”

“And when I said Slow down, I meant, Give me a second before I come. Not Go away.”

“Oh.” She looked up.

He straightened her glasses and tapped her on the nose. “Yeah. This is me checking in. I know you’re still not feeling great.”

She wasn’t sure how he noticed things like that. She was up, she was dressed, she was medicated and smiling. He should’ve had no idea about her slight, lingering headache, or the thrum of pain that her patch couldn’t quite touch, insistent enough that she was already frustrated.

She supposed whatever it was about him that made him notice might be the same thing that made her trust him.

“I don’t feel that bad,” she muttered, honestly enough. On her personal scale of one—wonderful—to ten—excruciating—this was a smooth six. Six was fine. One point above average. On the rare occasions she got down to a four, she often wondered how one found the universe’s feet in order to kiss them.

Apparently, though, Red wasn’t impressed by Chloe at a Six, because he just snorted. But he didn’t let her go. And, when she burrowed deeper into his arms, she felt his hardness through his jeans, pressing into her belly and singing through her blood. Well now. She wasn’t letting that go. Not when she’d decided to be brave.

“I think you should kiss me again,” she said, “and this time, don’t do anything silly. Like stop.”

He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You aren’t well.”

“I’m never well. And my consultant does like to go on about endorphins being natural painkillers, and—”

“Really? Your doctor tells you that?”

“Well, yes, but usually in a Chloe, you should go out and have fun sort of way.” Not a Chloe, you should clumsily seduce someone by discussing pain management sort of way.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, hugging her tighter against him. No avoiding that erection now. She tried to maintain some dignity, succeeded for half a second, then crumbled like feta and rocked her hips into his. The choked groan he gave was … pleasing. The way he screwed his eyes shut and let his head fall back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, was intoxicating.

Sounding pained, he asked, “Orgasms cause endorphins, right?”

“They do.”

“Want one?”

She blinked at his lovely, flushing throat for a moment. Was this actually working? It seemed so, but she wasn’t sure, because she suddenly couldn’t think straight. Then her backup brain kicked in—the smaller section of her mind that took over like a generator whenever something wiped out her general brain’s power. “Something” such as the casual offer of an orgasm.