Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
The metal creaks, lowering into place. Then—with purpose—he sets me down on the edge of it.
I don’t move.
Don’t dare breathe.
His hands linger at my waist, his fingers flexing slightly before finally—finally—he steps back. His eyes are dark and unreadable, the flickering porch light catching the sharp angles of his face, his nose. Jaw.
My heart is pounding.
Legs dangling over the edge, my breath short as I grip the sides of the truck bed for balance. The night air is so much colder without his warmth wrapped around me, and I reach for him. Spread my legs and pull him between them.
The shift, the sharp inhale, the way his body tenses the second my fingers hook into his belt loops, the second I pull him closer.
He doesn’t resist.
Doesn’t hesitate.
I curl my fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “Harris.”
“Yeah?”
He’s waiting.
For me to make a move. Guide him along, tell him what to do. But I love it when he’s bossy and takes charge—I need someone like him in my life.
I want him to take. To stop waiting for permission and do something about it.
I let the silence stretch. My legs stay spread around his waist, my pulse hammering, my breath short as his hands tighten around the truck bed, holding himself back.
Then—finally—his restraint snaps.
His hands find me, gripping my waist, pulling me forward so my body is flush against his, his fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs roughly.
I stare up at him, heart pounding, skin burning. “Harris—”
His thumb skims along my jaw, slow, teasing, a silent dare. “Say it, Lucy.”
The way he says my name—gritty, commanding—sends a delicious shiver down my spine. Ugh, so good . . .
I bite my lip, my pulse thrumming. He knows I want this.
But he wants to hear it.
I exhale, voice barely above a whisper. “I want this.”
“You’re all I think about, you know,” he admits. He sounds almost . . . broken. “I-I don’t know what to do with that.”
My chest tightens. I’m all he thinks about?
I take a slow, steady breath, reaching out to touch his face, tracing my fingers along the rough stubble on his strong jaw. As long as we’re doing confessions, I might as well admit my own. “I have no idea what to do about it either.”
His throat bobs with a hard swallow, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting some internal battle. “I don’t want to leave on Monday,” he reveals. “I don’t want to go to Arizona.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper. The words slip out before I can think better of them. “I don’t know why I said that—I know you can’t stay.”
My hands play with his waistband, and he leans forward, nuzzling my neck with the tip of his nose. He exhales against my skin, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down my spine.
“You make this so damn hard,” he says, lips brushing beneath my ear.
“Then don’t go,” I say softly, like maybe if I say it gently, it’ll become possible.
His hands find my hips. “We both know that’s not possible. I’ll be back at work next week.”
Work.
As in: football.
As in: the professional kind.
A big-boy job.
I tilt my head back, meeting his eyes, and the ache in them nearly undoes me. “Then what are we doing?” I whisper.
His thumb brushes the bare skin beneath my shirt, slow and reverent. “Making it impossible for me to leave.”
I don’t know if that’s a promise—or a warning.
His mouth crashes onto mine.
The earth shatters.
Heat floods through me, a slow, burning ache curling in my stomach as his hands roam my body. One holds my waist, the other slides up my back, pressing me into him so I’m as close as possible.
And I?
I melt.
Completely, entirely.
I clutch at his shoulders, seeking the warmth of his chest, tilting my head as his lips part, deepening the kiss, tongue teasing against mine in a way that makes my whole body tighten, makes me grip him even harder, makes me pull him closer still.
He is not gentle.
It’s a collision.
A hot, heated collision . . .
Every moment leading up to this—every tease, every push and pull, every unspoken thing between us—pours into this kiss, into the way he moves against me, into the way his hands stake his claim.
He drags his lips from mine, trailing along my jaw, down the curve of my throat, open mouthed and unrelenting. I tilt my head, giving him more, shivering when his teeth scrape against sensitive skin.
“Yes . . .” I whisper, voice unsteady.
A low, rough sound rumbles in his chest, his hands sliding up my rib cage, fingertips teasing beneath my shirt, grazing bare skin.
The wind stirs the pine trees around us.
I shiver.
His body tenses against mine, and then, without warning, he shifts, grabbing the truck bed as he hoists himself up beside me. The movement is fluid—effortless—like he couldn’t stand another second of distance between us.