“I’ve never been in here before,” she said, her voice sounding too loud in the stillness.
“I know.” He moved closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “I’ve thought about it, though. You being here.”
Her cheeks warmed at the admission. “Have you?”
“More than I should admit.” His smile was crooked, self-deprecating. “Especially to a therapist.”
“I’m not here as your therapist, Walker.” She took a steptoward him, eliminating the last bit of distance between them. “I’m just here as me.”
His hands came up to frame her face, calloused palms gentle against her skin. “Jo,” he breathed, and then he was kissing her again, deeper this time, with none of the hesitation from before. His fingers threaded through her hair, cradling the back of her head as his mouth moved against hers, hungry and sure. She pressed closer, her hands finding his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. Walker’s eyes were dark, intense in the moonlight.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he said. The words came out gruff and raw, like they cost him something.
“Me too,” she whispered. Her whole body trembled with it. She started on the buttons of his shirt, but her fingers fumbled. She laughed, breathless. “Apparently my hands don’t work anymore.”
He stilled her hands with his own, covering them. “We don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” She heard the urgency in her own voice. She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to let fear make her decisions anymore.
He helped her with the buttons, one at a time, exposing the faded T-shirt underneath. She slid her hands beneath it, finding warm skin and the solid muscle of his chest. He tensed, but didn’t move away. When she pressed her palm flat against his breastbone, she could feel his heart pounding. It matched her own, beat for beat.
Walker shrugged out of the shirt and undershirt. His arms and shoulders were scarred and sun-browned, the skin stretched tight over muscle. She traced one of the longer scars with her finger, slow. His breath caught.
“Come here,” he murmured, taking her hand and leading her toward the bed.
She followed, pulse racing, suddenly aware of how long it had been since she’d been with anyone. Not since Nick. Years of carefully maintained boundaries, of telling herself she wasn’t ready, when the truth was she’d been waiting for this—for Walker—all along.
He sat on the edge of the bed, drawing her to stand between his knees. His hands settled on her hips, warm and steady.
“We don’t have to rush,” he said, looking up at her. “We’ve waited this long.”
Johanna touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble beneath her fingertips. “I’m done being scared, Walker.”
Something flared in his eyes at her words. He pulled her down to straddle his lap, his mouth finding hers again. She felt the change in him immediately—restraint giving way to hunger, caution to need. His hands slid beneath her sweater, callused palms against the sensitive skin of her back, and she shivered at the contact.
“Cold?” he asked against her lips.
“Hot.” She broke away from him long enough to stand and unbutton her jeans, sliding them down her legs. He watched, gaze hot and hungry as she kicked the denim away.
She stood there in her underwear, suddenly aware of every flaw, every scar, every place she’d wished for less or more. But Walker’s eyes never left hers. He reached out, running his hands down her arms, her ribs, her hips. He was slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.
She pressed close, skin to skin, and felt his shudder. He kissed her again, harder now, hands moving over her back. She let herself sink into it, let herself feel everything. The heat of his mouth, the rasp of his stubble on her cheek, the way his hands mapped her body like he was learning her by touch alone.
He picked her up, just enough to drop her on the bed. She laughed, then cut herself off when her back hit the cool sheets. He braced himself above her, looking down with something close to awe.
“Johanna,” he said, like a prayer.
She pulled him down, kissing him again, and again. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, his back. His hands stroked her thighs, her belly, every inch of her. He moved slowly, letting her set the pace, letting her tell him what she wanted by the way she touched and pressed and moaned.
He slid off her bra with one hand, tossed it somewhere. She laughed, then gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation went straight to her core. She arched into him, breath coming short and ragged.
“God,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair. “Please?—”
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Anything you want.”
He kissed her down her ribs, her stomach, her hipbones. He hooked his fingers in her underwear and slid them off. She felt exposed, but not self-conscious. His gaze was worshipful, his touch reverent. He kissed her inner thigh, then higher, until his mouth was exactly where she needed it.
