Page 77 of Love Me Fearless

His eyes turn thoughtful. “It’s good practice. Plus, who would irritate Captain Greely?”

I laugh. “I hope you don’t take it personally. He’s easy to irritate.”

“Fish don’t seem to irritate him.”

“Fish don’t talk back,” I say with a wink.

He tips his wine glass toward me. “Do you two still clash the way you used to?”

“I inherited his stubbornness.”

He smirks. “That explains a lot.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being determined.”

“Most of the time, I’d say you’re right.” He locks eyes with me. “But what if that determination acts like blinders, and you miss the chance to enjoy yourself, explore?”

A nervous tickle batters my rib cage. “Something you want to tell me?”

His sexy smirk turns irresistible. He arches an eyebrow. “More like show you.”

Whooshgoes my stomach.

Hutch pushes back from his chair and extends his hand.

It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision.We’re good together, Greely. You know it. I know it.Tonight doesn’t have to define the rest of my life.

I place my hand in his and let him pull me gently to my feet. “What about the dishes?”

The cocky arch of his eyebrow should be illegal. “Dishes can wait.”

Chapter Nineteen

Hutch brushesthe hair back from my face and lowers to me for a kiss. His lips are soft and gentle, and up close like this his woodsy scent is mixed with the lingering notes from the yummy dinner he cooked for me.

Hutch lifts me up, making me laugh, and walks us to my couch.

Should I insist we slow down, maybe end the night with a kiss on the doorstep instead of letting him have me however he wants me?

Maybe.

Also…no effing way.

Because there is nothing more intoxicating than being what Ryan Hutchins wants.

My living room is sparsely furnished. Just a loveseat and matching chair and a TV on a stand in the corner that mostly collects dust. Hutch lowers to the loveseat with me on his lap. He tugs on my thighs to get me closer, bringing where I’m starting to ache in contact with the steel rod in his pants.

I caress his face in the darkness as we kiss, our lips crashing together. He strokes up my spine, beneath my sweater and over the back of my bra, his touch tender and caring, like he wants tomemorize me with his fingers. He skims down to my waist and brushes his thumbs up my belly. I rock to him, and flick my tongue with his, savoring his soft groan and his sensual caresses. His thumbs move up my ribs, his hands molding my sides. When his thumbs brush over my nipples, I’m so ready for it that I groan.

“I love touching you here,” he says, his fingers pinching and swirling with just enough pressure to make my breath catch in my throat. He breaks from my mouth and kisses down my neck, each kiss lingering on my skin like he knows it’s driving me crazy.

He lifts the hem of my sweater and kisses the place between my breasts while he scissors and caresses me over the satin. “But I love kissing you here even more.”

With a flick of his fingers, the front closure of my bra pops free. He groans, taking me into his mouth while he swirls and strokes with his fingers, wringing every drop of pleasure from me. I try to tug my sweater off but he slips the bra through each sleeve instead. “This stays on,” he says in that possessive purr that makes my hair follicles prickle.

So much for feminism.

I sigh my consent, combing slowly through his hair.

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