And failed miserably.
I knew I should say something. Announce myself and stop standing there staring like a woman who hadn’t been properly touched in far too long.
“Dalton?”
He spun around, wrench in hand. His eyes went wide when he saw me, and something flashed across his face—surprise, then heat, then that careful blankness he’d been wearing for two days.
“Amber. What are you doing out here? Is something wrong?”
“No. have a question. About the books. But if you’re busy, I can come back.”
His eyes tracked over me. Slow. Deliberate.
“I’m done here. I can’t do anything else until a part comes in.” He grabbed a rag and wiped his hands before walking toward the sink in the corner.
He turned on the tap and started washing. I watched water run over tanned skin, over the corded muscles of his forearms, over those big hands that I’d been having entirely inappropriate dreams about.
I knew I should stay by the door. Simply ask my question and leave.
Instead, my feet carried me across the barn floor like I was being pulled by an invisible thread. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to.
And I didn’t want to.
He went still when I stopped beside him. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell soap and leather and the faint scent of grease and honest work.
Before I could stop myself, I reached out and took his hand.
His skin was warm and slightly damp from the water. Rough calluses scraped against my palm. I traced my fingers over the thin red line where his injury had healed, and my touch was gentle. Reverent.
“This is going to scar,” I murmured.
“Yeah. It won’t be the last one I get.” His voice had dropped an octave, gone rough and dark.
He didn’t pull his hand away. When I looked up, he was staring at me with an intensity that stole my breath. His eyes had gone dark, the green almost swallowed by black pupils.
His free hand came up slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
He cupped my jaw, and the touch sent want and need racing through my entire body. His palm was warm and rough against my skin. His eyes dropped to my mouth and I stopped breathing.
He leaned in. Just an inch. Then another. His thumb traced my bottom lip, the pad of it rough and deliberate, and I feltthe touch everywhere—in my breasts, between my legs, in the sudden racing of my heart.
My lips parted on a shaky exhale.
His breathing changed. Rougher. Faster. I watched his chest rise and fall, watched the muscle in his jaw tick as he fought for control.
The hand I was still holding tightened around mine, his fingers threading through mine. He was close now. So close I could feel his breath ghosting across my lips. Close enough that if I tilted my head up just slightly, our mouths would touch.
I wanted it. Wanted it so badly I was trembling with it.
Kiss me, I thought desperately. Please just kiss me.
His gaze dropped to my mouth again, and I saw the war happening behind his eyes. Want versus control. Need versus fear.
I shifted closer, letting my body brush against him, and felt him go rigid. Everywhere.
