Page 45 of Wish You Were Mine (Kings of Eden Falls #3)

I leaned into his touch without even thinking, my eyes fluttering closed for half a second—just long enough to memorize the feel of his skin on mine.

When I opened my eyes again, he was still watching me .

Like I was something fragile. Impossible. Like he couldn’t believe I was real.

His thumb brushed across my cheekbone—so gently it made my breath catch—then traced down to the curve of my chin, tilting it ever so slightly.

I lifted my face toward his, only a breath separating us now. Every nerve ending in my body lit up, aching for him to close that space. To kiss me already and put me out of my misery.

Please.

Just do it.

“Lucy…” he whispered, my name catching in his throat. Like he was trying to remind himself we shouldn’t.

Like he was asking me to stop this before he lost control.

But I didn’t want to stop.

Slowly, I turned my head and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist—soft, deliberate, and filled with every ounce of longing I hadn’t dared speak aloud.

His breath caught before a low, ragged sound escaped his chest—half groan, half surrender.

And then I saw it, the shift in his eyes.

The unraveling.

Like his grip on restraint was loosening, and this time, he didn’t want to stop it from slipping away.

His jaw tensed, the muscles in his arm tightening beneath my fingers.

He searched my face, like he was still clinging to the question we weren’t saying out loud.

Then he exhaled, low and rough. “Ah, screw it,” he muttered.

A second later, his hands were tangling in my hair, his mouth covering mine.

The kiss was rough.

Hungry .

And everything I’d been aching for.

He tasted like heat and tension, like something forbidden that I couldn’t stop wanting. So I leaned into him, sliding my hands up his chest, over the steady hammer of his heart.

Man, he was solid—strong in a way that surprised me for someone who spent most of his days in a classroom or a lab.

My fingers lingered, exploring the contours of muscle beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

I found myself wondering about his workout routine.

Wondering if he’d ever let me tag along, just so I could watch.

His hands found my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me until we were pressed together. And while he’d hugged me just a few days ago, this—his body against mine, his lips setting fire to my thoughts—was something else entirely.

He slid his hands up my sides, slow and possessive, palms smoothing around my ribcage until they spread across my back. And it felt so good. To be held like this. To be wanted like this. Safe and secure and desired.

“You taste so good,” he breathed against my lips. “Feel incredible.”

“So do you,” I panted, my fingers curled at the hem of his shirt—needing more, craving more. When I slipped them underneath, my palms met warm, unyielding muscle. I traced the lines of his stomach, the ridges of his abs, the rise and fall of his chest with every unsteady breath.

His whole body went still.

Then a groan rumbled low in his throat, and his hands slid down to grip my hips before he lifted me like I weighed nothing.

I gasped softly as he raised me, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He caught me beneath my thighs, steady and sure, as my back pressed against the cool wall of the pantry.

And then he leaned into me .

Every inch of his torso pressed tight against every inch of me.

It was overwhelming in the best way.

His mouth moved against mine with a kind of hunger I felt down to my bones. Like he’d been starving for this. For me.

I couldn't breathe.

Didn’t want to.

My fingers curled against his back, digging into the muscles there, feeling the shift and tension of him beneath my palms. Then he deepened the kiss, his lips trailing along my jaw, my throat, until he found that spot just beneath my ear that made my breath catch and my eyes flutter shut.

A sound escaped me. A soft whimper I didn’t have time to be embarrassed about.

“Lucy,” he breathed, rough and low, like it physically hurt him to hold back. His forehead brushed mine. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

But I didn’t. The last thing I wanted was for him to stop when I’d been dreaming of this for so many weeks.

So, I clutched him tighter, silently telling him I was right there with him. And when he slid the sleeve of my dress off my shoulder, baring the slope of skin beneath, I still didn’t stop him.

He kissed me there—slow, reverent—then let his mouth drift lower, brushing the sensitive skin just above the neckline of my dress. When he sucked gently, a rush of heat bloomed low in my stomach, and my legs suddenly went weak.

It felt so good—his mouth on my skin, warm and intent, like he was memorizing the taste of me. But it wasn’t just how he touched me. It was how he wanted me. Like I was something rare. Something to savor. Like I mattered.

And I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed being seen like that. A lump formed in my throat, unexpected and aching, because it had been a long time since anyone had looked at me as more than just a warm body, an object to play with until they grew tired of me.

I clung to his shoulders, trying to stay upright, but my legs gave out, and my back hit the wall with a soft thud. Owen’s arm shifted quickly to steady me, but in the scramble, his elbow clipped the pantry light switch.

The bulb overhead flickered once…then went out, plunging us into darkness. Only a sliver of ambient light spilled in from the kitchen, casting just enough glow to catch the outline of his jaw and the glint in his eyes as they searched mine.

He started to reach up, maybe to fix it.

But I stopped him with a whisper, “Just leave it.”