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We’re out here, under the sky, the prairie around us, our scents mingled with Fen’s and Jas’s permeating the air, nothing but us for miles and miles.
It’s primal and it triggers something in me that I didn’t know I was still capable of feeling after being ‘civilized’ by city living.
The urge for skin-on-skin contact takes over me like a craving.
I let him go so that I can unfasten the buttons on his plaid shirt. His fingers put a halt to my ministrations. “Whoa, Zee.”
I can tell he wants to slow this down but I can’t.
That’s the last thing I want. If anything, I need to pick up where we left off this morning.
Ignoring him, I find a pocket of space and slip my fingers beneath the buttoned shirt.
Only to find a freakin’ Henley.
My growl is explosive and feral and it epitomizes how I feel. Howhemakes me feel.
I grab his jaw and hold him in place as I push my forehead onto his. “I’ve wanted you since I knew what teenagers did together over in Pleasant Park, Colton. Touch me.Please.I feel like I’m going crazy!”
His expression heats up but I know it’s the way my words wane into a broken whimper that has him angling backward so he can drag off his shirt, a couple flying buttons be damned. Then, he draws the Henley over his head, arching up to settle the fabric under his ass to keep it from flying away.
My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth at the sight of him.
He’s so different than how he used to be. While the muscles from hard work were there before, he’s matured. Like a fine whiskey.
My fingers spread over his chest, nails scoring red ravines over his abdomen as I explore what has always been forbidden to me.
I can’t decide if this is a dream or some kind of delusion, but he feelssodamn good to my touch that I never want to stop. And then my fingertips brush over scar tissue—burns—and while I’m thrown back in time to a night that changed our lives for the worse, I don’t stop touching him.
Won’t.
Ican’tlet go of this connection. Not when I’m feeling his courage. His strength. These scars maketh the man. They’re proof of who he is and what he is. Tangible evidence that he’d keep me safe if ever I were in danger too.
I release him only to find the hem of my sweater and to raise it and my undershirt overhead, leaving the fabric to puddle between us as my hat tumbles off and goes flying.
Neither of us gives a damn as he returns his mouth to mine. This time, his fingertips dig into my ass as he actively encourages me to ride him, his knees directing Fen into a swifter pace that amps up the friction between us.
Soft whimpers explode from me as I press my chest to his, bare skin finally touching bare skin.
I sob against his throat, head tucked underneath his chin as release cascades inside me.
It’s rough and ready—just like this encounter.
Unexpected and all the hotter for it.
When I sag into him, the abrupt blast of pleasure taking the starch from my bones, he presses small kisses to the line of my jaw.
His tongue explores my mouth like he has all the time in the world. I know he doesn’t. But the reverence is back, and it’s not in his kiss anymore. It’s in his touch. It makes it seem as if I’m his axis.
He’s still hard between us. A solid band of heat that makes me crave a deeper connection.
I’ve dated a lot of guys, but in the past couple years, I’ve mostly stopped because Tee’s right—the dating pool is grim.
And I’ve always had this man to compare against whatever loser I met on an app.
Yeah, he’s always been the measure.
Always.