He kisses like he does everything else—confident, thorough, with an edge of humor that makes me want to laugh and melt at the same time. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer, and I go willingly.
"My place," I manage against his lips. "Now."
"Bossy."
"Problem?"
"No ma'am."
The drive to my house takes twelve minutes. It feels like twelve hours. Dean follows in his truck, and I spend the entire time gripping my steering wheel and wondering what the hell I'm doing.
I know what I'm doing. I'm choosing this. Choosing him.
It's terrifying.
He's barely through my front door before I'm pulling him toward the bedroom. Biscuit raises his head from his dog bed, takes one look at us, and goes back to sleep. Smart dog.
His hands are on my shoulders, stopping me mid-hallway. "Are you sure?"
"I interrupted your conversation with a beautiful woman, invented fake plans, and had you follow me to my house." I grab his collar. "I'm sure."
"Just checking."
"Check faster."
He laughs—that surprised, genuine sound—and then we're kissing again, stumbling through my bedroom door.
He fumbles with my buttons and laughs at himself. "These are unnecessarily complicated."
I didn't expect fumbling. Didn't expect the self-deprecating laugh or the way he looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something to conquer.
"They're regular buttons."
"They're tiny. Who designed these?"
"Someone who didn't anticipate impatient pilots."
I help him with the last few, and he pushes my shirt off my shoulders with something like reverence. Then he just... looks at me. Not the hungry, consuming look I've gotten from men before. Something softer. Like he's memorizing me.
"You're beautiful," he says, and it sounds like a revelation instead of a line.
"You're overdressed."
"Noted."
His shirt comes off, and I get a much better view than I did at the lake. No cold water, no squelching boots—just warm skin and muscle and the way he shivers when I run my hands down his chest. His dog tags hang between us, catching the dim light from the hallway.
"You're staring," he observes.
"I'm appreciating."
"Take your time."
I do. I trace the lines of him—the scar on his forearm, the freckle on his shoulder, the way his breath catches when my fingers find sensitive spots. He's patient, letting me explore, his hands gentle on my hips.
Then I reach for his belt, and patience apparently has limits.
We tumble onto the bed in a graceless tangle of limbs. My jeans get stuck on my ankle, and we have to stop so I can kick them off while Dean tries very hard not to laugh.
