“Cold?”
“No.” Her voice is breathless. “Definitely not cold.”
I pull back just enough to look at her—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes dark and dilated. She looks thoroughly ravaged, and we've barely started.
“Thought you were a good girl,” I whisper.
“Only for you.”
She pulls me back down, kissing me again—slower this time, exploring. Her tongue traces my bottom lip, and I groan. My hand slides higher under her jumper, my thumb brushing the underside of her ribs, and she arches into the touch.
Christ, I could do this all day. Just kiss her. Touch her. Learn everysound she makes, every curve of her body, every secret place that makes her melt.
But then she pulls back, breathing hard, resting her forehead against mine. “Cavin…”
“What?”
“I really do have work.”
I close my eyes, trying to get my breathing under control. “Right. Work.”
“And I…”
“We should wait,” I whisper. “Wait to go further.”
Why does the wedding that seemed too fuckin' close suddenly feel like it's years away?
She nods against me, but her fingers are still twisted in my shirt. Neither of us moves.
“You're making it very hard to be good,” she says finally.
“That's rich, coming from you.” I press one more kiss to her temple and set her on her feet, forcing myself to step back. “You taste like honey.”
She blinks up at me, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed. “I had honey on toast.”
“Course you did.” I can't help smiling. I brush a thumb across her bottom lip, and she shivers. “Come on, then. Before I change my mind about being honorable.”
“Honorable?” She raises an eyebrow as I take her hand, leading her toward the gate. “Is that what we're calling it?”
“Would you prefer 'desperate'? Because that's the other option.”
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something dangerous to my chest. “I'll bring you home,” I say, lacing my fingers through hers. “But you're sitting close in the truck.”
“How close?”
“Close enough I can still smell honey.”
She ducks her head, but I catch the smile. “You're flirting, Cavin McCarthy.”
“Aye.” I open the gate for her, then pull her against my side as we walk. “But you like it.”
“Aye,” she murmurs, leaning into me. “I really do.”
Chapter Nineteen
Erin
“Alright,”my mother says, clapping her hands like she’s trying to get a classroom of unruly children to attention, even though it’s literally just me and my father, dressed once again in formal, torturous clothing. “We need to go.”
