Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)(104)

"I didn't. I don't. I approve." The words tumbled from my mouth because I couldn't say them fast enough.

That made him smile, just briefly, then he swallowed. I watched his profile as the smile melted away and the lines of his face grew stark. He seemed . . . distant. Or rather, reluctantly present but ready to leave. Enigmatic. Like he couldn't decide what to do next and not knowing what to do next was a foreign state for him.

I covered his hand on my breast with mine.

"Matt," I whispered.

"Hmm?" He didn't look at me, his eyes were still perusing my body. It was as if he was trying to memorize the sight of me.

I reached up with my free hand and cupped his jaw, tears stinging my eyes as I admitted, "I'm so in love with you."

Matt's gaze darted back to mine and he blinked, breathing the word, "What?"

"I love you." I also blinked, because my eyes were overflowing with tears. "I love you so, so much."

Why are you crying, Marie?

I didn't know.

I honestly had no idea.

Feelings? Whoremones? Maybe a nearby, but as of yet unseen onion?

"You do?" he asked, sounding so entirely stunned, I physically ached for him.

From what I could see through the blurriness of my tears, Matt appeared to be overwhelmed by both thoughts and emotions. Eventually, he released a sudden breath and gathered me in his arms, burying his head in my neck.

I huffed a laugh, returning his embrace, giving in to the euphoria of loving him, and knowing he loved me in return. What that meant, what came next, would have to wait. I was having difficulty breathing. He was holding me too tight.



       
         
       
        

But, honestly, I didn't mind.



We dressed. We left. We went back to my place. Matt did two things on the way.

He texted Marcus and Kerry, letting them know we'd left and that they would have to find their own way around tomorrow.

He kissed me. A lot. On my neck, face, shoulders, arms, hands, wrists, fingertips, and sometimes mouth. But he did so gently, like he was still concerned about my lips.

We were kissing as we entered my apartment, as he reached for the light switch and turned it on, as I reached for it immediately after and turned it off.

"Marie-"

I slid my hands under his shirt, whispering, "Let's make love in every room."

He made a grunting noise. Actually, it was more of a groan-grunt of helplessness. "Yes. We definitely will. Multiple times. But first," he caught my wrists and held them between us, "first I want assurances."

"Assurances?"

"Promises. Or oaths. Vows will also do." Though his words struck me as silly, his expression was stern.

"About what?" I tried to twist out of his grip, to touch him. He wouldn't let me.

"I need to know." His breathing changed as he stared at me. "When? When did it happen?" Matt loosened his hold on my wrists, bringing my hands to his neck. I was beginning to suspect he liked it when I touched him there. "What did I do to make you love me?"

I grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, loving that I could now do that whenever I wanted.

"You were yourself."

His eyes told me he didn't understand. "Meaning?"

"No. That's it. I love you, for being you."

He stood straighter. "Then when did it happen? What triggered it?"

Studying him, his furrowed brow, the displeased turn of his mouth, I felt perplexed. A prickle of concern tickled the back of my neck.

"Matt, love doesn't work that way. It's not a binary system of on or off. It's not a 0 or 1." I smoothed my hands to his shoulders and then his arms, gripping him tightly should he try to abruptly move away. "It can be sudden, or so I've heard. But the love I have for you, what I feel for you, wasn't 'triggered' by any one thing. I love you . . ." I paused, because he flinched a little at the words I love you, making my heart rate tick up. So I repeated, "I love you, because of who you are. Because of the man I've come to know. I love you."

He was shaking his head before I'd finished speaking. "How many people do you love, Marie?"

I searched his eyes for a clue as to where he was going with this. "I don't know. I've never counted." 

"Do you love Fiona?"

"Yes."

"How about Quinn?"

"Yes . . ." I was glaring at him now, my fingers having relaxed on his arms.

"How many more?"

"What's your point?"

"I love one person. And she's standing in front of me." This statement sounded accusatory, belligerent.

"Are you-" I dropped my hands, stepping out of his grip, "-are you saying my love is worth less because I love many people?"