“You’re very hands-on,” I whisper.
His grip tightens, just a fraction. “Focus.”
I turn my head slightly. Our lips are a whisper apart.
His breath stutters.
For one suspended second, the world narrows to that almost-kiss. The heat of his mouth is so close I can almost taste it, the way his fingers flex on my hip like he’s fighting not to pull me closer.
Then he jerks away.
“Concentrate,” he mutters, stepping back like I’ve burned him. “Sorry.”
He stalks off toward the range house, shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides.
I stand there, heart hammering, skin tingling where he touched me, lips still buzzing from how close we came.
I give him two minutes.
Then I follow.
He’s on the porch of the small range building, leaning against the railing, staring at the horizon like it personally offended him. His back is to me, but I know he heard me coming. He always knows where I am.
I stop a few feet behind him. “You’re running.”
“I don’t run.” His voice is rough, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“You are.” I step closer. “You’re running from me.”
He turns. Slowly.
His eyes are dark, stormy. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“From what?” I close the distance until we’re inches apart. “From Ramsey? From Tate? Or from you?”
He exhales through his nose. “All three.”
I reach up, touch the scar on his jaw softly. He doesn’t pull away.
“I feel it too,” I whisper. “The tension. The pull. I’m not imagining it, and neither are you.”
His hand comes up, covers mine against his face. His palm is warm, rough. “You’re not.”
“Then why are you fighting it?”
“Because once I touch you—” His voice drops to gravel, raw and honest. “I won’t stop. I’ll want everything. Every kiss. Every sigh. Every inch of you. And I won’t be able to think about anything else. Not the threat. Not the mission. Just you.”
My breath catches. “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”
His eyes darken further. “Megan.”
I rise on my toes. “Aaron.”
He groans—low, broken—and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is slow at first, almost careful, like he’s testing the waters. His lips are firm, warm, tasting faintly of coffee and him. Then the restraint snaps.
His hands slide into my hair, fisting the curls, tilting my head so he can take the kiss deeper. I open for him, tongue meeting his, a soft moan escaping me when he growls into my mouth. His body pressing against mine is hard, hot, unyielding. One hand drops to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I feel every inch of him, every ridge of muscle, every scar, the hard length of his arousal against my stomach.
