August slips into my embrace and rests the side of her head on my chest. “You’ve been a nice distraction,” she says.
“No, I will not sleep with you to get rid of your whiskey drinking habit,” I tell her, making a joke out of her response.
She slaps my chest. “Chance Miller, I did not suggest such a thing.”
“Okay, then, just making sure.”
“It could work, though,” she says.
Dear God, give me strength right now.
“Are you using me?” I continue to joke, knowing I’m about to throw her over my shoulder and bring her into my bedroom.
“Just testing the waters,” she says softly.
I place my hands on her shoulders and press her away so I can look into her eyes. “I don’t want to confuse what’s going on with us for a genuine issue you have going on,” I tell her, being serious. I don’t want whatever we have going on here to be under false pretenses or a way to bandage something up.
“Would you rather me tell you what I did in the shower last night before I had a drink? Because I was only thinking about you during that part.”
I can’t fight this anymore.
I wrap my arm around her and scoop my other arm beneath her butt to lift her. I accidentally walk her into the freshly painted wall, but I don’t care. I kiss her with the adrenaline pumping through my veins, enjoying the sounds of her heavy breaths, the quiet moans.
The next thing I know, I’m walking us into my bedroom, I kick the door closed behind us and toss her onto the bed, forgetting about the fact that she has wet paint all over her backside.
She certainly doesn’t care either. Those doll-like eyes are staring up at me as I pull off my white tee.
“Wow,” she says. “I didn’t know what you were hiding.”
I was hiding the ink I covered myself in fifteen years ago when I was trying to find myself. Everything else August might be looking at is from daily bouts of hard labor.
She unhinges the buckles of her overalls, revealing a see-through white tank top, and I can already see there isn’t a bra I’ll have to fight. “You came here with an agenda, didn’t you?”
Her lip curls in response. “Thinking of you takes all the bad away,” she says.
With little effort, I slide her pants down until they fall to the ground. I remove mine in response.
“I’m afraid you’re getting wet paint all over my sheets,” I tell her.
In response, she crosses her arms and tugs at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head.
Her skin is fair but smooth and pure, contrasting the lace-black panties she’s wearing.
I climb over her, pulling the sheets up over us, and stare down at her for another minute. “I don’t know how I got this lucky,” I tell her.
“You haven’t gotten lucky yet, Chance.”
My eyes are uncontrollably rolling into the back of my head. I reach out to my nightstand and into the top drawer. “God, I need you,” I tell her.
“Don’t make me wait any longer,” she says.
I slip on the condom faster than I’ve done anything in my life. And before it’s even in place, I crash my lips into hers.
I skate my hands over every inch of her bare skin, trying to memorize the feeling of her soft silkiness. She seems frail in my hold, and I’m scared of hurting her, but the thought melts away when her fingernails bite down into my shoulders. Her head tilts back, and her waist arches from the bed; she’s begging without words. I scoot down and kiss her hips, the flesh above her panty line, and yank at the material with my teeth, tearing them down to her ankles.
I place my hands on her wrists, holding them above her head, and plunge myself into her warmth. My body becomes heavy and weak as I rock into her, moving to the sound of her moans and pleas. I watch her body move in a wave, taking me in, keeping me where she wants.
“More,” she begs.
