I whimper. My hands roam up his chest, over his shoulders, nails digging into the back of his neck.
He walks me backward until my back hits the porch railing. His thigh slides between mine, pressing just enough to make me gasp. His mouth leaves mine, trails down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point.
“You taste so fucking good,” he mutters against my skin, voice wrecked.
I arch into him. “Then keep tasting.”
He kisses me harder, tongue stroking mine, hands sliding under my T-shirt, rough palms skimming my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.
I’m drowning in him.
Then suddenly he pulls back. Our breathing is ragged. He presses his forehead to mine.
“We can’t,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not while I’m protecting you.”
I make a frustrated sound. “You’re killing me.”
“You’re killing me,” he counters, but his hands are still on me, thumbs stroking slow circles on my skin. “But I won’t risk your safety. Not for this.”
I cup his face. “This isn’t just sex, Aaron. You know that.”
His eyes close. “I know.”
I kiss him again, soft this time, slow, promising. When we break apart, he takes a step away from me.
“Soon,” he whispers. “When you’re safe. When this is over. Then I’m going to take my time with you. Every inch. Every sigh. Every sound you make.”
My knees go weak.
I nod. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
We stand there, wrapped in each other, the tension still humming between us like a live wire, but now it has direction and promise. That’s enough for now.
Chapter seven
Aaron
Every single day, I tell myself the same thing: she’s the asset. Keep the line. Do the job. Walk away clean when it’s over.
Every single day I fail a little more.
It started small. A laugh she lets slip when I burn the edges of the toast and she calls me “Chef Jenkins” with that teasing lilt that makes my chest ache. A stubborn comment when she refuses to let me carry the heavy stack of printed records from the printer to the table, and then she trips over the rug anyway, and I catch her by the waist before she falls. The way she looks at me when she realizes my hands are still on her, steady, lingering, like they belong there.
Small things.
But they’re killing me.
This morning, she walks out of the bedroom wearing my navy flannel again. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem hitting mid-thigh, bare legs that go on forever. She’s got the top two buttons undone, and the collar is crooked, exposing the soft hollow of her throat.
She catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, voice sleepy and amused. “You said this flannel was warmer.”
I swallow. “It is.”
She smiles and walks barefoot to the coffee maker. The hem of the shirt shifts with every step. I force my eyes to the ceiling.
