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“Three weeks,” he growled. “I go to bed, lie there and think of you. Wake up, you’re the first thing on my mind.”
“Take a chance on me,” he whispered. “No,” I whispered back.
“Babe, you don’t want anything from me, why are you standing in my room staring at me?” Gah! “I’m not staring, I’m glaring,” I countered.
“You put yourself in front of bullets for your fiancé,” he whispered, and my breath stopped. “Baby, you don’t have any hard spots.”
“You’re ready to work at takin’ it there with me.” “I think, after Dodge Ram Rescue and Bob Seger’s ‘You’ll Accomp’ny Me,’ it’s been confirmed you’re real, so yes. I’m ready to work at taking it there with you.”
“You’re right. I’m shit scared of taking the risk of feeling the fullness of how much I love you.”
“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” “Fuck me,” he murmured, his voice gruff, and not from just having come.
“Every step, every breath, every second I lived on this earth, I’m thankful for, no matter how fucked up or whacked or hard or good, ’cause all that shit led me to you.” Oh dear. I was going to cry. Damn! I was crying.
“This isn’t going to work if both of us pull dramas, Hopper Kincaid. You’re supposed to be the mellow one.”