“Better?” I ask, my voice rougher than it should be.
She nods, but I can feel her trembling under my touch. “Still pretty cold though.”
“We need to get out of these wet clothes,” I say, then immediately realize how that sounds. “I mean, you’ll catch pneumonia if you stay in wet clothes.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Worried about me, Jesse Nelson?”
“Maybe.” I don’t see any point in lying about it. “Come here.”
I lead her deeper into the barn, where we keep some old blankets for the horses. The space is warmer here, sheltered from the wind that’s driving the rain against the walls.
“Your shirt,” I say, gesturing to her flannel. “It’s soaked through. You need to get it off.”
For a moment, she just looks at me, something unreadable in her dark eyes. Then she reaches for the buttons, her fingers fumbling with the wet fabric.
“Here, let me.” I step closer, my hands replacing hers on the buttons. My knuckles brush against her skin as I work each one free, and I feel her sharp intake of breath.
The flannel falls open, revealing a white tank top underneath that’s just as wet and twice as revealing. I can see the outline of her bra, the soft curves of her breasts, and that heart-shaped birthmark I remember from our one night together all those years ago.
“Jesse,” she whispers, and there’s something in her voice that makes me look up at her face.
Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing shallow. The air between us feels charged, like the electricity from the storm outside has found its way into this barn.
“You’re still cold,” I murmur, though we both know that’s not what this is about anymore.
“So are you.” Her hands come up to rest on my chest, and I realize she’s right. My shirt is just as soaked as hers was.
Before I can overthink it, I grab the hem and pull it over my head, tossing it aside. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in the tattoos that cover my chest and arms, ink I’ve gotten since she’s been gone, stories written on my skin that she doesn’t know.
“You’re different,” she says, her fingertips tracing the outline of a tattoo on my collarbone.
“So are you.” My hands find her waist, thumbs brushing just under the hem of her tank top. “But some things are exactly the same.”
“Like what?”
“Like the way you make me feel like I’m losing my damn mind.” The confession slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest in a way that leaves me feeling exposed.
Her breath catches. “Jesse…”
“I know we shouldn’t,” I say, pulling her closer until there’s barely an inch of space between us. “I know it’s complicated and messy and probably gonna end badly. But Christ, Bree, I can’t stop thinking about last night. About dancing with you, kissing you…”
“Then don’t stop,” she whispers, and that’s all the permission I need.
My mouth crashes down on hers, desperate and hungry. She responds immediately, her arms winding around my neck, her body pressing against mine. She tastes like rain and coffee and something uniquely her that I’ve never been able to forget.
I walk her backward until her back hits the wooden wall of the barn, my hands roaming over every inch of exposed skin I can find. She gasps when I kiss my way down her throat, her head falling back to give me better access.
“God, I’ve missed this,” I murmur against her skin. “Missed you.”
Her hands are everywhere, tangling in my hair, scraping down my back, tracing the lines of my tattoos. Every touch sets me on fire, makes me want to forget about everything else except the feel of her in my arms.
I’m reaching for the hem of her tank top when she suddenly goes rigid against me.
“Wait,” she pants, her hands pressing against my chest. “Stop.”
I freeze immediately, stepping back to give her space. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She shakes her head, but I can see the confusion in her eyes. “No, you didn’t hurt me. It’s just…” She takes a shaky breath. “What did Noah mean?”
