He reached out slowly, like he was giving me time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers grazed my cheek, rough and warm, and I forgot how to breathe.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmured.
“Terrible,” I agreed.
“I’m twelve years older than you. I own property you’re technically trespassing on. I have a reputation in this town that I’ve spent years protecting.”
“All very good points.”
“And you’ve never—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “You deserve better than someone like me.”
“What if I think you’re exactly what I deserve?” The words came out before I could stop them. “What if I want you?”
Something snapped behind his eyes. He kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate and hungry, like he’d been holding back for hours and had finally run out of willpower. His hand fisted in my hair, gently tilting my head back, and I gasped against his mouth as heat flooded through me.
I grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more of him. He groaned low in his throat, and the sound sent a shiver straight down my spine.
“Truck,” he managed between kisses. “Now.”
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t argue. My brain had stopped working somewhere around the first touch of his lips.
He pulled me up from the chair and led me toward his pickup, parked at the far edge of the lot, away from the main operation. The windows were tinted dark. Private. My heart hammered against my ribs as he opened the back door of the extended cab and helped me inside.
The door closed behind us, and suddenly we were cocooned in silence. Just the two of us, the late afternoon light filtering through the tinted glass, and the electricity crackling between us.
His hands found my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I straddled him, knees bracketing his hips, and kissed him again—slower this time, deeper, learning the taste of him.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said against my mouth.
I answered by reaching for the hem of my shirt. We were past the point of stopping, and we both knew it.
4
WARRICK
Icouldn’t believe how fast everything had unraveled.
One minute, we were sitting on those folding chairs, talking about loss and loneliness like two normal people trying to pretend they weren’t staring at each other’s mouths. The next, I had Peyton straddling my lap in the back seat of my truck, her shirt gone, her plain cotton bra the only thing still between us.
Plain. White. Nothing fancy. And fuck if it wasn’t the sexiest thing I’d ever seen on a woman.
My hands shook a little when I reached behind her. The clasp gave with a quiet snap. She shrugged it off, letting it drop somewhere behind the seat, and then she was bare—small, perfect breasts, nipples already pebbled from the cool air and the way I was looking at her like I wanted to devour her whole.
We were parked at the edge of the lot, sure, but there were still trucks and people and volunteers moving around out there. Anyone could glance over, squint through the tint, catch the rocking of the suspension if we weren’t careful.
The thought should’ve made me stop. Instead, it sent a dark thrill straight to my cock.
She liked the risk too. I could tell by the way her eyes were wide, the way her breath hitched when I leaned in and took one tight nipple into my mouth.
Christ. She tasted like salt and skin and sweetness. I sucked harder and flicked my tongue, and she arched, grinding down on me so I could feel the heat of her right through her jeans. My hips jerked up without permission.
I switched to the other breast, kneading the first with my palm while I worked her with my mouth. She was moving now—slow, needy rolls of her hips—and every time she pressed down, I swore I could feel how wet she was getting, how ready.
I had to know.
I popped the button on her jeans. Dragged the zipper down slowly, torturing us both with the sound. Then I slid my hand inside her panties and—fuck—found her soaked. Slippery. Hot. One finger pushed inside easily, and she clenched around me like she never wanted to let go.
