Page 105 of Never Let You Go

I do, digging my fingers in his shoulders, riding every last tremor in his arms.

He sets me carefully on the floor, turns my hair in a rope to my side, kisses me softly on the lips, and says, “Best makeup I know is giving you an orgasm.”

“Yeah?”

He trails my cheekbones. “You get all pink here. Your eyes are brighter.” He kisses my hair. “You glow even more than you usually do.” He wraps me tenderly in his arms, his beating erection between us. “We should get going,” he says with a deep sigh. “I need to get out of here,” he adds, chuckling. “How much time do you need?”

“I’ll be downstairs in five, but hold on.”

“What?”

“Let’s get rid of that,” I say, swiping a cotton pad with makeup remover on his nose. “There, better.”

He leans into me for one last tender kiss.

Minutes later, we bundle up. The air is sharp with cold, the sun again so bright on the snow, I wear my sunglasses. We pack several pies Willow made this morning with Skye’s help and climb into Christopher’s SUV.

His hand on the gear shift brushes my knee when we pull out of the driveway, and a small smile floats on his lips. He glances at me, mischief in his eye. Skye is looking out the window, singing the tune of the spring show.

My mind rewinds to what just happened in my bathroom, and I blush.

“Alexandra,” he growls.

“Hmm?”

“Stop.” He lifts himself off the seat and adjusts his jeans.

“Oh, sorry.” Not sorry. “You gonna be okay?” I ask, teasing.

He chuckles. “Probably not.”

Trees cast long shadows on the snow when we get to the farm, a large, white Victorian house with a wraparound porch. Several cars are parked in front, and I recognize Grace’s Jeep.

A massive red barn towers over the farm, built alongside a hill. Several outbuildings dot the majestic landscape of snowed-in, fenced pastures framed with thick woods.

“Wow,” is all I can say.

“Right?” Christopher says. “The land we’ve been through since we left the main road is all theirs.”

“It’s so quiet,” I say as we circle around to the trunk, the crunch of our boots on the snow the only sound.

He meets me behind the car, and grabs my hand.

“I wish… I could—” he stutters.

“I know.” I smile at him. “We’re keeping it professional. No worries.”

He nods in silent thanks and gives my hand a last tug before unlocking Skye’s door, then unlatching the trunk where we grab the pies and breads. “Come on, little bug,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“Aunt Lynn and Uncle Craig!” Skye cries, running toward the house, slipping on the driveway’s packed snow as she does.

A handsome couple in their fifties, both blond, fit, and tanned, are coming out of the house and pause on the top of the steps.

The woman glances my way, a kind expression on her face, then turns to Skye with wide open arms and lifts her into them.

The man kisses the top of Skye’s head and comes quickly down the steps. “Give me this, sweetheart,” he says to me, relieving me of the bag of breads I’m carrying. “You must be Alexandra. I’m Craig.”

“I am,” I say, glancing at Christopher. “Nice to meet you, Craig.”

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