Page 177 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
The fabric comes up and over his head in one smooth pull, baring the lines of his back to the headlights shimmering over him. The shirt hits the grass.
My breath catches in my throat.
It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t feel attracted to him, but I am. No matter what I do, he’s always there.
His hands go to his waistband, and I should look away.
I don’t.
One tug, and the denim slides low on his hips. He steps out of the jeans and leaves them in a crumpled heap beside his boots.
Boxer briefs.
Black.
And entirely unfair.
I look away but then look right back. By that time, the briefs are gone, leaving his bare ass cheeks.
My heart stutters as I take in the full sight of him. Chiseled and unashamed. Every inch of him is a testament to the country life he has lived. Skin bronzed, not by leisure, but by labor. The muscles of his torso are defined by ranch work, not the vanity of a gym.
He walks into the pond like the sunset was made for him. The water laps at his ankles, then his calves, then his thighs. Ripples spread outward, distorting the reflection of the sky, as he wades deeper. The water clings to his skin, highlighting the muscles beneath.
I hold my breath when he submerges himself. When he breaks the surface, the water closes over his shoulders, leaving only the crown of his head visible.
And I sit here, arms crossed, and so damn sticky.
But I’m mad at him—furious.
How dare he throw his sleeping with someone at me? But the sex isn’t even what really bothers me. It’s the thought of him doing our bucket list with another woman.
I peel my sticky thighs off the seat and look down at my T-shirt, stained with slush and foam. My pants are practically fused to my skin, and the idea of not showering until we’ve set up the tent makes me want to cry. And I am not a crier. But damn it, I’m on the verge of tears.
Screw it.
I slam the truck door and start toward the pond. He turns when he hears me.
I don’t slow down. “Turn around.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I’m getting in. But you don’t get to watch the pre-show. Turn around.”
A slow grin tugs at his mouth, but thankfully, he turns. And thankfully, the truck’s light flickers off.
I strip fast.
Who am I kidding?
It’s a slow, disgusting ordeal, and once I start, I shed my bra and panties too. I toss everything in a pile beside his.
The air is cooler now, the sky shifting toward gold and rose.
The water is chilly, but amazing. I dunk under and tilt my head upward as I break the surface.
When I was a few feet from him, I say, “Okay. You can turn around now.”
When he faces me, it’s the first time I’ve really looked at him all day, and exhaustion etches into every line of his face.
