“Maybe I like your company,” I say softly. “I want to enjoy it before I have to go back to Pops’ empty house.”
The truth is, I’m not great with free time. I was eager to have Pops back home so I could pour myself into taking care of him instead of moping around the ranch, trying to distract myself from my lack of job or love life.
Right now, I have nowhere to put all this restless energy.
He quirks a brow at me. “Alright, alright. I’ll keep you company.”
I smile at him, something warm settling in my chest as a plan finally takes form.
He didn’t say yes to what I asked him last night, and God knows I don’t want to come out and ask him again.
Not in words anyway.
But maybe I don’t need words to show him exactly what I want.
Kinky Bucket List
Tripp
Quinn sits at the long kitchen island in nothing but a loose T-shirt dress that hangs off one shoulder, revealing the hot pink strap of her swimsuit.
My mouth goes dry as I stare—held captive for a moment by the idea of my hands on her smooth skin. Her blond hair spills out of a knot on top of her head, and the long curve of her neck is begging to be kissed.
I’ve always loved this version of her—stripped down, without the full face of makeup and her hair done. It’s like I get to see a side of her the rest of the world isn’t privy to. This is the Quinn I remember from nights under the stars out at the ranch. The one who always felt like mine, even though she wasn’t.
She looks perfect. But then again, she’ll always be perfect to me.
How could she possibly think I’m not interested in her like that? She's a goddamn wet dream.
Her gaze finds mine, and those blue eyes brighten as they trail down my torso. Her cheeks pinken slightly, and I want to ask her what she’s thinking—maybe tease her, get a rise out of her like I used to—but I bite my tongue.
It feels like we’re on a slippery slope.
Or maybe it’s just me slipping and sliding down this ridge of desire and temptation while her footholds are steady. Maybe she isn’t thinking about how she asked me to check things off her kinky bucket list last night.
But I am.
The thought of sweet Quinn with a dirty bucket list has me both insanely curious and dangerously turned on.
“Want a beer?” I ask when I can’t stand her silent perusal anymore. The tension is nearly unbearable.
She finally glances away, her cheeks deepening another shade. “Sure.”
Alright, maybe she’s slipping a little too.
I slide her beer across the island and take a long pull from mine, trying not to think about how little that swimsuit probably covers.
“Thanks for inviting me to tag along with you guys today. I had fun,” she says.
“You’re a Dawson. You don’t need an invitation. You’re always welcome out there.”
She shifts on the stool, wincing slightly. “Maybe next time I’ll just go out with you for an hour or so.”
“Sore?” I ask.
I step behind her and slide my hands over her shoulders, squeezing gently. Touching her is second nature to me. I’ve always been atouchy-feely guy—it’s just who I am—and Quinn’s never been an exception. But there’s always been a line I didn’t cross.
Last night? She blurred the hell out of it.
