When he finally moved, it was all at once—his calloused hand sliding up the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, gripping just tight enough to make my breath catch.
His mouth crashed against mine, hot and demanding. I tasted coffee and mint toothpaste. A sound escaped me, half-moan and half-plea, as I clutched his hoodie in both hands, fabric bunching between my fingers.
I tore my mouth away, gasping. "Hog—"
"Tell me to stop," he growled, voice like gravel, his massive hands now cradling my face with a tenderness that contradicted the wildness in his eyes. "But damn, Rhett, I don't want to stop."
"Don't you dare stop,"
He backed me against the workbench. Tools rattled. Something fell—screwdriver, maybe, clattering against concrete. Neither of us cared.
His hands slid under my shirt, rough palms scorching against my bare skin. I forgot how to think. He moved to my neck, his beard scraping the sensitive hollow of my throat, sending electricity down my spine where it made my cock swell.
"Fuck," I managed, fingers digging into the dense muscle of his shoulders, feeling him flex beneath my grip. "You're—"
"Too much?" He pulled back, broad chest heaving.
"Not enough." I twisted my fist into his hoodie and yanked him back against me, our bodies colliding with a force that knocked the air from my lungs.
He made a sound—half-laugh, half-groan—and kissed me harder. Wood shavings caught in his beard. Sawdust coated his hoodie where he pressed against the bench. My hands touched bare skin under the fabric.
When we pressed against each other, I felt his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Back room," I said against his mouth. "Now."
He blinked, pupils blown wide. "What?"
I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the smaller workroom in the back—away from the windows, the street, and anyone who might walk by and see Thunder Bay's contractor and the Storm's enforcer making out like teenagers.
Except.
I stopped at the doorway, looking at those street-facing windows. My truck was visible right outside. I hadn't bothered to close the roll-up door because I'd been too focused on cabinet restoration to care who saw.
Anyone could look in. Anyone could see us.
"Rhett?" Hog's voice was uncertain. "You okay?"
I turned back to him—this huge man who'd just told me he'd spent his whole life trying to be smaller, simpler, and easier to hold. He stood in my workshop surrounded by sawdust and half-finished projects, looking at me like I might ask him to leave.
"People can see your truck," he said quietly. "From the street. They'll know you're here with—" He gestured at himself. "With me."
"Good. Let them."
His eyes widened. "But your business—"
"My business will be fine. And if it's not?" I kissed him once, quick and fierce. "Then it's not. But I'm not hiding you. Not from Thunder Bay or from anyone."
His expression shifted—surprise melting into heat and hunger I could feel from three feet away. "You mean that."
"Yeah. I do."
He kissed me like I'd just given him permission to want something. His hands tangled in my shirt, pulling me flush against him, and when I gripped his hips and turned us so his back hit the wall, he went willingly.
"Fuck," he breathed, head falling back. "Rhett—"
I kissed down his neck, tasting salt and that cedar smell that clung to him. His hands found my hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and the sound he made when I bit the hinge of his jaw went straight through me.
We were a mess—sawdust everywhere, his hoodie riding up, my hands shaking where they gripped his sides. I could feel him hard against my hip through too many layers, could hear his breathing coming faster, could taste the desperation on his tongue when he pulled my mouth back to his.
