He kissed me again. Softer this time, but no less intense. When he pulled back, there was something almost reverent in his expression.
“It doesn’t sound crazy,” he said. “It sounds like you were waiting for something that mattered.”
My heart squeezed. “And you don’t…that doesn’t change anything?”
“Sweetheart.” The endearment rolled off his tongue like he’d been calling me that for years. “The only thing it changes is how careful I’m going to be with you.”
I should have been nervous. I should have been second-guessing every decision that had led me to this moment—standing in a dark parking lot with a man I’d really only just met, contemplating going home with him.
But I wasn’t nervous.
I knew exactly what I wanted.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?”
“Take me home with you.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Something dark and hungry that made my stomach flip. But he didn’t kiss me again. Instead, he took my hand and led me across the parking lot to a black pickup truck that looked about as big and sturdy as he was.
He opened the passenger door and helped me up into the cab, his hand warm on the small of my back. The interior smelled like smoke and pine. I breathed it in as he rounded the front of the truck and climbed in beside me.
“You’re sure?” he asked, one hand on the key in the ignition. “Because we can just sit here and talk if you want. Or I can drive you back to your car. Whatever you need.”
“I’m sure.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, searching for any sign of doubt. Whatever he found must have satisfied him, because he nodded once and started the engine.
We pulled out of the parking lot and onto the dark mountain road. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating patches of snow still clinging to the shoulders. Inside the cab, the heat kicked on, wrapping around us like a blanket.
I watched his profile as he drove. The strong line of his jaw. The way his hands gripped the steering wheel. He was focused on the road, giving me space, not pushing.
I didn’t want space.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached across the center console and rested my hand on his thigh. He went very still.
“Elsa.” His voice came out strained.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I said, surprising myself with how steady I sounded. My hand slid higher, feeling the muscle tense beneath his jeans. “I just want to touch you.”
His knuckles went white on the steering wheel. “You’re going to make me wreck this truck.”
“Then maybe you should drive faster.”
He let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan. The truck accelerated, and I smiled to myself in the darkness, my hand still resting on his thigh, feeling the heat of him through the denim.
I had no idea what I was doing. I’d never been bold like this—never been the one to make the first move. But something about Briggs made me feel safe enough to try. Safe enough to want.
My fingers traced higher, and his breath caught audibly.
“How much farther?” I asked.
“Not far enough.” He caught my wandering hand with his, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to my palm. “And too far. Both at the same time.”
I understood exactly what he meant.
My fingers trembled only a little as I slid them higher, tracing the hard ridge beneath his jeans. The denim was rough against my palm, but underneath it, he was already straining, thick and hot even through the layers. My heart hammered so hard, I was sure he could hear it.
