Page 44 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“You’re not driving with open wounds,” Dawson says, sifting through the contents of the pouch. “What if you get pulled over? They’ll think you murdered someone.”

“My brother is a lead deputy, remember? If anyone is safe from a false murder accusation, it’s me.”

“I’ll drive,” Quinn says.

“Good idea,” Dawson adds.

I peel off my wet fleece, but my hair catches on something, and I’m stuck. “Help!” I cry while groping above me to find the culprit.

“Hold still,” Quinn says, moving in. Dawson steps behind me, trying to peel the back of the shirt over my head without pulling any more hair.

“Ow!”

“Easy,” Dawson drawls.

Quinn is closer now, his chest just touching mine. The sensation of his firm body against my breasts sends a tingle down my spine.

Dawson gets my shirt off, inside out. At least now I can see, but my hands are locked inside the shirt and my tangled hair is stuck to something above me.

“I got you,” Quinn says, freeing my tangle from a ragged metal seam lining the hatch door.

I tumble backward, against Dawson’s chest. I stare at Quinn while my pulse gallops in my throat. The heat from Dawson’s body radiates into my back, and I shiver.

Quinn drops my fleece into the truck bed and steps close. His face is wet from the rain, but there’s no mistaking the hungry look in his eyes.

“Tell me I’m imagining this, so I can stop thinking about kissing you.”

He thinks about kissing me? “What do you mean by ‘this’?”

His look darkens.

Before I lose my nerve, I grip his shirt with my aching hands and kiss him. His lips are warm despite the heavy dampness in the air, and his kiss is tender, but desperate, like we’re picking up where we left off that night outside the Pelican. Quinn cradles my hips, his hold firm. His erection stiffens against my belly. I can’t help but press closer. The sensation quickens my desire. I do this to him?

Rain drips off the hatch door and splatters on the gravel. I should be chilled, but a million sparks are coming to life inside me, heating me from my toes. Quinn’s tongue flicks against my lip, and I let him inside. A wonderful charge tingles through me as our kiss deepens into a slow, tantalizing dance.

Behind me, Dawson gives a low groan. Gently, I pull back from Quinn and glance over my shoulder, where Dawson is watching with tense eyes. A visible bulge presses against the fly of his wool pants, and his hands are fists.

Quinn caresses down my arm. “You like Dawson watching?”

“But I need to know it’s okay,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“What else?” I ask, breathing fast. I spin to face him, so desperate to touch him that I’m shaking.

“This,” he says, and leans down for a kiss. His lips are full and tender and so soft. It’s a sweet kiss that makes me feel like I’m tumbling into an abyss.

I hold onto his waist, emotion tightening my throat.

“There’s more,” Quinn says, his eyes a deep, rich brown, his dark lashes wet from the rain, “but you need to be sure this is what you want.”

I laugh, and give them both a look. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Maybe we can help,” Dawson says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Let’s start with the pact we made with you the night we met,” Quinn adds, “you need to be the one to break it.”

A reckless thrill tingles down my spine. I close my eyes and kiss Quinn again, the heat from his chest warms my back. Quinn’s tongue flicks and teases, my heart pounding. His body feels so good against mine. Firm and strong, confident.

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