Page 262 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“It’s just you.” He inhales and lets it out with a grumble. “In nothing but that T-shirt.”
I laugh and lightly hit his arm. “Stop.”
He drops everything and scoops me in his arms. He’s enormous, and his whole body swallows me whole. His mouth is on mine again.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
Desperate as if he’s been starving for it, and the last hour in the gazebo hasn’t quenched his hunger.
The force of his kiss and the way his mouth devours mine steals my breath—his stubble scrapes against my skin. The wet heat of our mouths merges. The taste of him is sharp, wild, like a storm, like thunder echoes in the distance.
It’s intoxicating.
It’s overwhelming.
And I’m drowning in it—in him.
He pulls away and presses his forehead against mine. “We’re never going to make it to the guesthouse at this rate.”
I lick my lips, the taste of honey and Hart lingering. “I’m not in a rush.”
I could stand here all day with him.
He peels himself away from me, and his gooey torso sticks to my shirt. “We need a shower.”
“Or chicken feathers.”
The flash of an angry scowl makes me laugh.
“I’m kidding.”
“C’mon, before I take that T-shirt off you right here and press you against the tree and fuck you all over again.”
“The answer is yes. Yes, to all of that. Don’t make me wait, woodsman.”
He laughs, and his rumble is beautiful. But he doesn’t follow through on his dirty little threats and pulls me along the path.
“Tease.” I lean against his side as we navigate through the backyards’ winding pathways.
Who am I right now?
I don’t do handholding.
I don’t do leaning.
And yet, here I am, clutching his hand like it’s the only solid thing in this jungle of a backyard.
It feels good.
Too good.
My fingers fit into his like they are meant to, and my body soaks up his warmth like I’ve been starved of it.
And maybe I have.
Strong doesn’t mean untouched.
