Page 46 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

The heel of his boot kicks the back door closed behind us, and Tripp picks up speed to run through the kitchen. Tonight could have gone a million different ways. Getting carried out of the reception—bare feet and ass in the air—was not one that I had prepared for.

“I’m gonna die,” I squeal over his shoulder. “You’re gonna drop me, and I’ll crack my damn head open, Tripp Lathan!”

“Hush. I ain’t dropping you.”

He slows down to a walk when we’re finally in his room. After locking the door, he sets the bottle of champagne on the nightstand and my shoes in the closet. I’m still slapping his backside to let me down, and he chuckles while finally leaning forward and lowering me to the ground.

With a huff, I smooth my hair back and out of my face. Damn, these hay-throwing, handsy country boys. They think they can just lift and carry anything in sight, grown women included. I’ve seen every one of them but Heston do it at least once today.

Annoyed and turned on are such closely related emotions, I now realize.

Being in his room is an instant relief. It’s neat and clean, which I wasn’t expecting since I think both the bridesmaids and groomsmen got ready for the wedding in the bunkhouse today. He even kept his plants alive.

The part of me that’s been off-kilter for a week almost feels back to normal just by breathing the familiar air in here again.

“We got some looks running out of there like that, you wacko. Have you considered that I’m perfectly capable of walking?”

“No. Have you considered being my girlfriend?”

My lips part, and he unbuttons his jacket. I still haven’t answered him by the time it’s off and thrown over his dresser. I’m not shocked that this is something he wants. Not after what he said to me at the reception.

It’s the straightforwardness that catches me off guard. We’ve had our fair share of fun and games since day one. Friends here, bedroom benefits there. Admit we like each other, and break things off soon after.

Straight-up is a new strategy. He took that approach at the reception, and he’s taking it again now. I don’t hate it one bit.

Just for fun, I cock an eyebrow. “Are you going to crash out if I don’t say yes?”

We have all the time in the world for this pointless debate. Tripp is already mine, and he knows it. But he deserves a little edging after taking his jacket off and making me drool in slow motion like that. This is just a little payback.

His jaw clenches, but his eyes remain calm. “No. I’ll just go back to the drawing board again. If you don’t trust me again yet, then I’ll do what it takes to earn it back.”

“So basically, if I say no, you’ll ask me again tomorrow.”

“Pretty much,” he laughs.

Is that so? Tempting, because I’ve always wanted to see him on his knees.

I cross my arms with a smirk. “I wasn’t going to say no.”

“Were you going to say maybe?”

I ignore his question because how am I supposed to speak when he unbuckles his belt and pulls it off with one hand? It’s borderline pornographic. My eyes drift down, and I attempt to x-ray vision my way to seeing his abs.

“Or were you going to say yes?”

“I’m not sure,” I lie. “I was just thinking it over for a second.”

“That’s a shame,” he sighs. “Take your time, honey. But I can’t do what I want to do until you give me an answer.”

My hand covers the side of my neck. What does he want to do?

I’m still not used to seeing him in a formal suit. It’s well-fitted, though, and I stare at the way his tight shirt tapers down toward his narrow hips. I wonder if he has any idea how cruel it is to be that downright seductive without even trying.

“What if I did say maybe?”

He removes the bowtie under his collar. “I’d kiss you goodnight. Let you be the big spoon while we go to sleep.”

I almost break out in a celebratory dance. He’s always claiming the big spoon position. This is a tough opportunity to turn down. Still, my thoughts drift to what we’d be doing if I said yes. I’m blinking slower now, and I watch every deft movement of his fingers closely.

“Okay. And what if I said yes?” My heart races as he unbuttons his shirt. “What would you do?”

He leans forward with a fearless smirk. I track the space between us disappearing inch by inch. Once his mouth is close to my ear and I can no longer see his face, he lowers his voice to a whisper.

“Guess.”

My hands are screaming to reach out and touch him. Grab and hold onto what’s mine, once and for all.

He lifts his head enough to study my reaction. Tingles prick the surface of my skin as I look into his hazel eyes. I’ve seen every version of them, from bloodshot tears to radiant joy. Right now, they’re drenched in lust, and I have a feeling that mine look the exact same.

I take a wild guess. “Remove my dress?”

“That’s a given.”

“Put your mouth on me?”

He hums a moan and lifts his hand to trail across the lines of my collarbone. The thought of him exploring me with his lips and tongue again is enough to make me light-headed.

“More,” he nearly growls.

His fingers gravitate to my shoulder, hooking a dress strap and pulling it down. He does the same on the other side until I’m gripping the tight bodice and forcing it over my hips and straight to the floor.

“More,” I repeat his promise, desperately encouraging him to keep going.

The impatience in my voice is the opposite of his movements—like he’s taking his time to savor each and every touch. I’m frantic beneath the surface while he unhooks my strapless bra, tosses it toward the closet, and then slides my panties down.

I step out of them with no hesitation. The brim of his hat teases the side of my neck when he bends to hook an arm around my waist. We’re close to the bed, and it only takes one quick lift and turn to place me down again.

My fingers clutch the comforter on either side of my thighs. I look up—breathless, fully naked, and mesmerized as he finishes unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Bare chest and abs, slick felt cowboy hat still on his head, sinfully fitted slacks hanging just below the deep V of muscle at his waist . . . I’m about to launch myself toward him when he lowers himself to his knees in front of me.

Jackpot.

I smile as he brackets my hips with his hands and yanks me toward him until I’m barely sitting on the edge of the bed. There’s going to be a matching set of faint imprints on the top of my ass tomorrow with the way his hands dig ruthlessly into my flesh.

“If you say yes, I’m going to fuck you, Mesa.”

My focus is split between the image of him ravaging me completely and the wetness between my legs. I let his pledge hang in the air between us. He’s cunning in a way that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to resist. It’s a wonder any woman ever has.

“You’ll fuck me?” I repeat in a whisper.

He leans forward to place an open-mouthed kiss on the underside of my jaw. “Into oblivion.” Another kiss. “Senseless.” More kisses and a teasing bite. “Until my lungs give out or you beg me to stop.”

My head rolls back as I shiver through more of his kisses. I’m lost in another universe when he finally reaches his limit and takes either side of my head in his hands. Our mouths are a breath away.

“Yes,” I whisper proudly.

He fists my hair and pulls our lips together. No shy blushing. No long, romantic eye contact. He moves in like he’s been waiting for centuries to do it and finally sees his chance to strike.

I’ve kissed him plenty of times before. Each previous experience was child’s play compared to this.

His tongue invades my mouth, and my inner thoughts wail, as if refusing to give voice to every uninhibited confession for so long pains me. This is what we were denying ourselves. This breath-stealing, heart-stopping, world-shattering kiss.

My trembling hands lift to latch onto his wrists like they hold the steady weight of an anchor. He cups my jaw with such force that my brows pinch together. Agonizing and delicious all at once.

It changes everything.

If he wants me, he’s got me. And the way he slows his momentum and melts his lips to mine when my thumbs run a line of rough pressure up the side of his wrists tells me I’ve got him, too.

I thought being possessive was a red flag until I felt it myself for the first time, in this moment. That’s my man. Mine .

Broken in some ways, never taken care of the way he deserved to be in others, and mine to protect from now on.

Maybe that’s not a job that most women would be eager to take on.

But Tripp is different. He’s been hurting for so long and living with the shitty hand life dealt him before he was even born.

Mine to protect. And I’ll die on that hill.

When the lack of oxygen becomes too much, Tripp pulls away. He’s panting right along with me as I work to slow the fast expansions of my chest.

“Don’t move,” he says, forcing himself to peel his hands from my face and stand. “I’ll be right back.”

I nod and place a hand over my heart while he jogs to his walk-in closet.

My thighs press together so tightly that my lower abdomen clenches.

He continues to rummage around in the closet, and after hearing him spit several inaudible curses, I lean over the side of the bed and reach for the bottle of champagne.

I flinch when the cork pops against my thumb and goes soaring toward the line of Tripp’s hats hanging under a wooden shelf on the wall. Bubbles flow quickly over the top, and I hold it away from the bed, lean forward, and cover them with my mouth.

They sparkle over my tongue. As the fizz dies down, I tip the bottle for a quick swig. When I open my eyes and look down, Tripp is standing in front of me. I pop the open bottle out of my mouth.

“What part of don’t move didn’t you understand, hmm?”

He’s ditched his clothes and hat. My gaze trails slowly up his body—past the distracting valleys of hard muscle, hard length between his legs, and mouth-watering tattoos—until it lands on the playful disapproval on his face.