I close the gap, brushing my nose against his. “But the good kind, right?”
A swallow moves through his throat, his gaze flicking between my eyes. He doesn’t answer, but his grip around my waist tightens. It’s firm and protective, and it burns through my soaked clothes.
When a bird whistles above our heads, I glance up. “Hey. The sky’s already clearing.”
He shifts, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. “So we can go?” He starts to sit up, but I don’t move off him.
“Stay.”
A ghost of a smile tugs on his lips.
Heat rises up my body, a warm tingle starting in the pit of my stomach, spreading to my fingers, and dipping between my thighs.
“Are you gonna tell me why I can’t leave?”
“Do I have to have a reason?” I press my palm against his chest, feeling the quickbu-bum, bu-bum,bu-bum. I love the way his heartbeat feels—intense and brimming with a million unspoken emotions, just like his eyes. Leaning down, I don’t think about it before I dart my tongue over his closed lips.
He lets out a shaky breath, shutting his eyes. “Blue ...”
“You really like saying my name,” I whisper.
He laughs against my mouth, low and husky, and my stomach clenches. When he brushes a wet lock of hair off my cheek, I touch his hand, entwining our fingers as he brings them down to his chest.
Linked like this, I can’t look away from the contrast of our hands. His are so much bigger than mine, rough with callouses and scars. The kind of marks that make me want to know how he got each one. His fingers are different though. Long and strong, there’s something smooth, even elegant, about them, like they’re meant for something special. I smile, thinking of Benji. He has similar fingers, perfect for playing his banjo and the other instruments he dabbles with.
“Anyone ever tell you, you have a musician’s hands?”
His gaze softens, and his lips quirk in the sweetest half-smile I think I’ve ever seen. “Yeah, actually.” He rubs his thumb along my index finger, a lazy caress. “Anyone ever tell you, you have hippie hands?”
I laugh, pulling away and shoving his shoulder hard. “Hippie hands? That’s not a thing.”
He’s smirking when he snatches my wrist and gently drags me close. “I don’t know, maybe it should be. They’re cute.”
“How can hands be cute?”
“I’m asking myself the same damn thing,” he grumbles, but amusement flickers behind his eyes.
My smile spreads, and I shake my head like he’s being ridiculous. But I love it. So much. He hides this side of himself so well, though a part of me knew I felt it even when we first met. This softer, easy part of him.
“Tell me something about yourself, grumpy,” I say quietly.
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m not that interesting.”
“Um, I disagree. You’re probably the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”
His lips tip up in a dry smile, and he drawls, “I doubt that,” before fixing that intense gaze on mine. Something uncertain passes through his eyes, and I wish I could soothe it away.
“I want to know you.” I press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He stiffens beneath me, but I can’t tell if it’s from the gentle gesture or my words. I wonder if anyone’s gotten this close to him.
He mutters under his breath, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
I press a kiss to his jaw, then another, my heartbeat drumming against my rib cage. “Sounds like a warning,” I tease.
“Maybe it is.” He’s not teasing.
I narrow my eyes, scanning his serious expression. It’s impressive how quickly he locks his feelings up, guarding himself. Getting stuck in his head.
