I laugh at his wide-eyed expression. “Yes. It’s not that uncommon.”
“I know implants aren’t uncommon. My mom has them. I just didn’t know girls went around showing them to other girls.”
“Oh, Brady.” I walk closer and throw my arms around his neck. “Girls shareeverything.”
“Is that right?” Brady winds his arms around my waist. “What did you tell them about me?”
“Nothing.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Why not?” He sounds a tiny bit offended.
My tongue slips over my lips in anticipation, knowing that what I’m about to say will be taken as a challenge. “There wasn’t much to tell.”
Brady’s eyes narrow. He pushes his body weight into me, walking me backward until my backside meets the solid shape of a tree trunk.
“I’m going to give you something to talk about,” he says against my hair, his deep voice tickling my ear.
He pulls back a few inches, his steady gaze traveling over my face. My lips part, my stomach muscles contract, the breath in my throat suddenly has weight, as if it has been mixed with something hot and sweet.
Brady gathers my hands, lifting them above my head and pinning me against the tree by my wrists. His free hand traces its way up my rib cage, pressing gently against the fabric of my sports bra, and over my chest, coming to rest at the base of my throat. He leans in, kissing first the hollow space above his hand, then up my neck and over my chin. When he gets to my lips, he pauses before taking the tiniest bite.
I exhale a quick breath, surprise and desire coursing through me. Brady’s lips crash against mine and he swallows my surprise, inhales my desire, devoursme. We are lips and limbs, kisses and ragged breathing, bodies pressed close and at the same time not nearly close enough.
“Brady,” I moan against his cheek, dragging in a breath, more winded now than from our run.
“Addi—”
Overhead, the sky booms like a cannon. We look up, and above the green trees, I see a bruised sky, heavy with moisture.
“I think it’s going to—”
He doesn’t get to finish this sentence either, because there’s another loud crack, and the sky opens.
Brady lets go of my wrists, only to grab ahold of my hand and pull me onto the path. We start back, and now we’re running, not jogging. The rain pours down, the water soaking through my clothes, rivulets entering the top of my sports bra and sliding down through the valley of my breasts.
We reach Brady’s cabin and climb the steps to the covered porch, finally out of the downpour. Brady shakes his head, and water droplets from his hair go flying. He runs a hand through his hair a few times, and although it’s messy, his hair looks relatively dry. Me, on the other hand…
“Can I use your bathroom?” I rub my palms on my forearm. It’s not actually cold outside, but I feel cold anyhow. “And maybe borrow some dry clothes from you?”
Brady leads me inside, and I grab a towel from the linen closet and begin drying off. It’s a standard-issue Sweet Escape sage green cotton towel. I may have even been the one to fold it.
“I’ll be right back,” Brady says, disappearing into the bedroom. He comes back a minute later with a button-up shirt and shorts, his expression apologetic.
“You’ll probably have to roll the shorts up a lot, if they even fit at all.”
“I’ll make do,” I tell him, taking the clothes and walking into the bathroom. I close the door behind me and peel off my wet clothes, laying them on the edge of the bathtub.
I dry off and get to work on my hair, toweling as much water out of it as possible and then attacking it with Brady’s brush. The tangles make the whole process take longer than usual. Grabbing Brady’s shirt, I slip it over my head, breathing deeply as it passes over my face. It smells like him. I grab the shorts, holding them up to see just how big they are. They look huge. I’m pretty sure they won’t fit me even with multiple rolls of the waistband.
I look in the mirror, my gaze drawn to my lips. I run my fingertips over them, remembering Brady’s kiss, the feel of his hips pressed to mine, the bark of the tree digging into my back.
Reaching down, I unbutton one more button of his shirt, so it falls open even lower, and roll up the sleeves until they’re almost to my elbows. I take a deep breath, gazing at myself in the mirror, then open the bathroom door and walk out.
Brady’s sitting on the couch. He’s wearing a dry set of clothes and paging through a magazine about the Oregon coast. He looks up when I get closer, and understanding dawns in his eyes.
“Addison, don’t do anything you’re not ready for.”
But that’s the thing about Brady that I can’t seem to fathom. When it comes to him, I feel ready foreverything.
