The question hung in the cab, heavy and reckless. I shouldn’t have asked it. I was drunk, and this was complicated, and this was a bad idea. But I didn’t care. I reached out, my hand finding his thigh, my fingers curling into the denim.
He hissed in a breath. The truck swerved slightly before he corrected it.
“Winnie,” he warned, his voice straining. “Don’t touch me there while I’m driving.”
“Why? Distracting?” I walked my fingers higher, just an inch. “Is the city boy flustered?”
“The city boy is trying not to put us in a ditch.” He grabbed my hand, lacing his fingers through mine and pinning it to the seat between us. “You are dangerous tonight.”
“I’m just honest like you were.” I leaned my head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent. “You smell better than Tyler. You smell like… expensive wood and trouble.”
He let out a short, breathless laugh. “Trouble. Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
By the time we pulled up to the ranch house, the silence between us had turned into a live wire. Beau killed the engine, but neither of us moved. The darkness of the cab felt intimate, a little world just for us.
“We’re here,” he said, but he didn’t let go of my hand.
“Carry me?” I whispered.
He looked at me, eyes searching mine. Then he got out, walked around the truck, and opened my door. He didn’t say a word—just reached in, wrapped his arms around me, and hauled me out.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, burying my face in his neck. He was so strong now. It was unfair how strong he was. He carried me up the porch steps like I weighed nothing, kicking the front door open and navigating the dark hallway to the stairs.
“You’re doing that heavy breathing thing,” I mumbled against his skin.
“Because you’re wiggling,” he gritted out. “Stop wiggling.”
“Can’t help it. You feel good.”
He groaned, a low sound in his throat that made my toes curl. He carried me all the way to my room, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and didn’t stop until he reached the bed.
He set me down on the edge of the mattress, but he didn’t back away. He stood between my spread knees, his hands resting on my thighs, his breathing ragged.
I looked up at him. The moonlight from the window cut across his face, highlighting the hunger there. It was raw. It was terrifying. It was exactly what I wanted.
“Beau,” I whispered.
“Winnie.” He leaned down, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of me, trapping me. “You need to sleep. You’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk.” I reached up, grabbing the front of his shirt. “I’m just drunk enough to be brave.”
“Brave?”
“To do this.”
I pulled him down.
He resisted for a split second—a hesitation of honor—and then he crashed into me. His mouth found mine, hot and desperate, tasting of whiskey and need. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. His tongue swept into my mouth, demanding, and I met him with everything I had.
I fell back onto the quilt, pulling him down with me. His weight settled over me, heavy and perfect. His knee drove between my legs, pressing against the ache that had been building all night.
“Beau,” I gasped, arching up into him. “Please.”
He broke the kiss, burying his face in my neck, biting lightly at the sensitive cord there. “God, you taste good. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
“Show me,” I challenged, my hands tangling in his hair, yanking his head back so I could see his eyes. “Stop talking and show me.”
His pupils were blown wide, black holes swallowing the blue. His hand slid up my thigh, rough and possessive, his thumb pressing into the denim right at the seam of my shorts.
