He nods. Leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His big hands hang loose between his thighs. His forearms are right there …tanned, veined, dusted with dark hair. I can see the tendons shift when he flexes his fingers. I want to run my tongue along the inside of his wrist. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I was good at the work,” he says slowly. “Published papers. Got respect. Had a life people thought I should want.” He pauses. His jaw works. “But I was just going through the motions.” He turns his head and his golden eyes hit me full force.
My chest aches. Because I know that feeling. Living a life that looks right from the outside and feeling hollow in the middle. I lived it for twenty years.
“So you came home,” I say softly.
“So I came home.” He straightens up. His knee shifts and touches mine …warm denim against my bare skin…and he doesn’t move it. Neither do I. “And I stopped looking. Figured whatever was missing wasn’t something anyone else could fix.” His golden eyes find mine. “Then you walked into that fair.”
I swallow. “Beau…”
“And I know this doesn’t make sense to you yet.” His voice is low and steady. He shifts closer. Not touching me…just closing the distance. I can feel the heat of his body in the shrinking space between us. His scent grows stronger. “I know you’ve got reasons to be scared. I know some asshole spent years makingyou think love means getting hurt.” My breath catches. “But that’s not what this is, Ina.” His golden eyes bore into mine. “This is everything.”
My eyes sting. I look down at my hands, at the place where my wedding ring used to be. The skin is smooth now. No tan line. No indent. Like I erased it by sheer force of will.
“I barely know you,” I whisper.
“You know me,” he says. “You’ve known me since I held your hand at that fair and you couldn’t let go either.”
I look up. And the thing is…he’s right. Some part of me, some deep, terrified, wanting part, has known since that first touch. Since his rough palm closed around my fingers and my whole body said,there you are.I just haven’t been brave enough to admit it.
So I do something I haven’t done in years. Something I swore I’d never do again.
I reach for him first.
My hand finds the back of his neck. His skin is hot under my fingers, the muscle be thick and corded. I feel the short hair at his nape, the warmth of his pulse under my thumb. I pull him toward me. And I kiss him.
It’s different this time. Not because he’s kissing me…because I started it. Because I chose it. My mouth on his, my tongue sliding against his, my hand fisting in his shirt, feeling the hard heat of his chest through the cotton. He makes a sound…low, rough, almost pained…like he’s been holding his breath for days, and I just let him exhale.
His hands come up and frame my face. Big palms. Rough skin. Gentle. Trembling. I feel every callus against my cheeks. His thumbs brushing under my eyes. He kisses me back like I’m air and he’s been drowning.
It builds. Fast. His hands slide into my hair. Mine pull at his shirt. He breaks the kiss long enough to yank it over his head, and I press my palms flat against his bare chest.
God.
He’s carved. Not gym-carved…work-carved. Hard slabs of muscle under warm, tanned skin. A dusting of dark hair between his pecs that trails down the center of his stomach, narrowing over his abs, disappearing into his jeans. His shoulders are ridiculous…broad, round, capped with muscle. His arms, thick and veined. I run my hands over his chest and feel his stomach clench under my fingertips. His skin is smooth and hot, and he smells even better without the shirt …pure warm skin and man.
“Beau,” I breathe against his mouth. Not a question. Not a protest. Just his name. Because it’s the only thing left in my head.
His hands wrap around my waist and he pulls me into his lap. I let out a small noise that gets swallowed right into his mouth…and suddenly I’m straddling him. Thighs around him. Knees digging into the leather. His jeans, rough under me. And what’s under the denim? That’s not a belt buckle. That is thick and hard and pressed right against the soaked mess between my legs.
His hands slide under my top, rough palms on bare skin, making me shiver everywhere. My breasts are heavy and aching. His tongue strokes mine, slow and dirty, while his hips shift just enough to grind up into me. I moan into his mouth before I can stop myself. The friction hits my clit and I’m grinding back like some sex-crazed teenager.
His grip tightens on my waist. He drops his head to my neck…his lips hot, his stubble scraping my throat.
“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s how bad I want you.”
“Jesus,” I breathe.
He bites my collarbone. “Not him. Me.”
Then he sits forward, pulling me tighter, the heat of him grinding right where I need it. I’m gasping. He licks a line up my throat and then…he stands. With me wrapped around his waist like it’s no big deal. Like I don’t weigh a damn thing. His big hands grip my ass, fingers sinking into the flesh, holding me up against his body. I feel his cock pressed against me through his jeans and my arms wrap tight around his massive shoulders.
He walks, slow and steady toward the back of the house.
“You’re always this quiet?” I breathe out, dazed.
He smirks…I feel his lips curve against my neck. “You want me to talk?”
