The first brush of his lips is gentle. Testing and questioning, as if he’s giving me one last chance to pull away. I answer by fisting my hand in his flannel and dragging him closer.
Finally.
He groans against my mouth, a low, rough sound that vibrates through my whole body. Then he’s kissing me for real. Deep and slow and devastating, one hand coming up to cup the back of my head, tilting me exactly where he wants me.
He kisses like he does everything else: deliberate, thorough, and completely overwhelming. I feel it in my toes. In my spine. In places I haven’t let myself think about since I got in his truck and came up this mountain.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Well.” My voice comes out embarrassingly unsteady. “That was?—”
“Yeah.”
“I mean?—”
“I know.”
Silence. But not awkward. Just… full. Like something’s shifted and we’re both learning the ground under our feet.
Tank’s thumb traces my cheekbone, achingly gentle for a man with hands that could break someone in half. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I outbid Mr. Rolex at the auction.”
“Outbidding a wealthy suit got you all hot under the collar, huh?”
“No, I wanted to kiss you to see if you still look incredible when you’re…flustered. ”
“I look incredible all the time.”
“True.” He leans in and presses a softer kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Stay.”
The word lands in my chest like a stone in still water.
“Tank—”
“Not forever. Not anything you’re not ready for.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. “Just… don’t run tonight. Let this be whatever it is without overthinking it.”
I should remind him that I don’t stay, or settle, or let myself want things that might disappear. That I’ve got a commission in New York and a life that doesn’t have room for mountain men with devastating kisses and couches that are too small.
Instead, I say: “Okay.”
His smile is slow and satisfied and does terrible things to my self-control.
“Okay.” He stands, offering me his hand. “Bed.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Sleep, Smudge.” But his eyes are dark with promise. “For now.”
I blink at the nickname. “Smudge?”
He glances down at the smear of charcoal on my thumb from earlier, graphite dust caught in the creases of my palm. Evidence of the sketches I’ve been pretending not to make. The ones that might be of him.
“I’m notthatmessy.” I try to sound indignant, but I’m smiling. “I wash my hands. Eventually.”
Something flickers across his expression. A secret he’s not ready to share. His mouth curves into a smile that promises things I’m not sure I’m ready for.
“Sure, Smudge.” His voice drops to something rougher. “That’s definitely why.”
Before I can ask whatthatmeans, he’s heading inside.
