Page 60 of A Photo Finish
Cole laughs a sad laugh but doesn’t look at me.
“So that’s what you tell Trixie. But what’s the real reason you don’t tell anyone?”
“Picked up on that, did you?”
I can’t stop looking at him. I want to touch him so badly that holding myself back is utter torture. My hands ache to even just hold his forearm, to feel the pulse of his veins under my fingertips.
“I guess I don’t want anyone’s pity. I don’t want to be treated like I’m incapable, like I’m weaker somehow. I don’t want those words, those looks. That’s probably why I liked your crawling joke.”
I turn my body, wanting him to look at me, or at least know that I’m looking at him. “You are not weak, Cole. I said you were one of the strongest men I know, and I meant it. Your leg doesn’t matter to me, and if it matters to anyone else, fuck them. They suck.”
His eyes dart around my face as if he can’t quite decide where to focus, and I wish—not for the first time—that I could figure out what is running through that beautiful head of his. I wish I could open it up and rummage around in there. Cole is such a closed book. And even though he’s talked more to me tonight than he ever has, I’m greedy. I want more.
Which is why I’m blindsided by the frustrated growl that tears out of his chest and the hand that darts out to grip my head and pull me to him. His other hand moves to my jaw, cupping my face reverently as he stares down at my lips. Like he’s tortured by them, entranced by them.
I don’t move. I don’t want to break whatever tenuous hold I have on him right now, sharing whispered truths in the dark. I want him to do it. To devour me. To take a piece of me and keep it.
I want him to want me as badly as I want him.
The smell of him mingles with the pine boughs around us and wraps around me as his chest heaves and his heavy breaths heat my cheeks.
“Do it,” I whisper, taunting him. “Please,” I add, begging him.
And this time he doesn’t deny me. “Fuck it,” he rasps right as his lips descend onto mine. Hard and fast, strong and relentless—just like him.
My hands coast up over his chest and flutter over his throat nervously as he kisses me senseless. I don’t even know what to do with my hands. They tremble as I let them trail through his hair while the rest of me turns to putty in his lap.
Everything about Cole is masculine. So powerful. I feel small and inexperienced, and so damn hot. I swing one leg over his waist, wanting to be closer to him, and he groans into my mouth as I settle down on him, feeling his steely length grow beneath my ass when I do.
His tongue finds the seam of my mouth as he tastes me, lips moving firmly—like a command to open for him. I rock my hips in response, pretty sure my panties are already ruined just from the skim of his calloused hand over my neck. The way he holds me there, it’s consuming, it’s . . . liberating.
He wants me. He brought me to him. I can feel proof of it pressing against my aching core. I grind down again, brazenly riding him and loving the feel of his hands constricting on my body while he teases my mouth so expertly. His hands slip underneath my shirt, tracing the indent along my spine, and burning across my skin.
We kiss. A tangle of tongues, and hands, and moans. We don’t rush; we explore. And I sigh into him, a little overwhelmed by how right it feels to be here with him. By how little everything else matters when he takes me in his lap and claims me like this.
I roll my hips again, my mind wandering down a path where we’re doing this exact thing but with no clothing between us.
“Jesus Christ, Violet. I’m going to blow in my pants if you keep riding me like that.”
His voice is shaky, and I pull back—only slightly—to meet his wild, lust-drenched stare with my own. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Stop apologizing.” His eyes take on a faraway look, and he hesitates, fingers fluttering over my body uncertainly all of a sudden. “This is, well, it’s just that this is—”
I want to rise up and cut him off. I want to make him stop what he’s about to say because deep down I’m terrified he’s going to tell me to stop again. Something I’m not sure my body can take, let alone my heart. “Don’t. Just . . . Can you just not ruin it? Save that for tomorrow. Let me just revel in how hot that was.”
I don’t want to hear him say that this is a bad idea. That we shouldn’t do this. He’s already put his mouth on my body and walked away once. I don’t think I can bear it again. How many times do I need to get turned away by this man before I learn my goddamn lesson?
This time, I’ll beat him to the punch. I kiss him one more time, hard, and then end it there, knowing that now isn’t the time or place to push him. “It’s fine. Let’s sleep.”
He regards me silently, a deep wrinkle in his forehead as I crawl off his lap and eye the ground, trying not to think about how many bugs are going to be down there with me tonight before shaking my head at myself. I’m a farm girl. Bugs don’t scare me. I flop down, feeling the dirt and pine needles against my bare skin and hearing Cole’s heavy breathing from somewhere near my feet.
He eventually lies down beside me. We’re not touching, but we might as well be. I can feel his heat along my back and smell that spicy cinnamon and clove scent I always pick up on him, but I can’t hear him anymore. His breathing has gone soft and quiet. I’m hyper-aware of everything about him, his nearness. I could fold myself into his big, warm body and fit perfectly.
I get lost in my head, remembering all those messages we swapped. All those nights I stayed up late talking to him. Saying good morning to him as soon as I grabbed my phone the next day. The lame jokes we’d tell each other. How had we been so compatible for so long only to be so damn confusing now? I know he’s not an open book, not a clear communicator, but this not saying anything is driving me insane. I can’t tell up from down where Cole Harding is concerned. Do I not live up to his expectations in real life? His dick felt like it was attracted to me—but maybe that’s the reaction he’d have to any woman? If he hasn’t had physical contact in years, that’s perfectly feasible. Is he really so insecure about his leg he’d keep me at arm’s length even now?
I shiver, thinking about the feeling of his calloused palms scraping up my bare back, about how I’d like him to press me down hard with that palm and—
“Are you cold?”
