Page 50 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Then he leans in and presses his forehead to mine, just for a second—grounding, steady.

His big hands reach out, they ghost over my neck, my shoulders, down farther until they find my breasts.

I shudder as his palms graze my nipples, moisture floods between my thighs.

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I got you.”

The words land in me like a promise.

Not a forever promise.

Not a romance novel vow.

It’s more an at this moment promise.

And somehow that feels even safer.

He leans in and kisses me again—deep, slow, sure—like he’s taking his time now that he’s allowed to.

Like he’s memorizing me.

My mouth. My breath. The way I melt when he tilts his head and pulls a soft sound from the back of my throat.

My hands slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against my lips.

His hands move, palms skimming my sides, warm and steady, then they glide back up—cupping, holding my breasts, as if he can’t help himself.

Like he’s making sure I feel how much he wants me without saying it out loud.

I arch into him, shameless and delighted by my own boldness.

Because this isn’t me being reckless.

This is me choosing.

I’m not a teenager. Not some starry-eyed virgin.

I’m thirty-five, clearheaded, and fully aware that desire can be immediate and still be real.

That attraction can be sudden and still be safe.

That two adults can want each other without turning it into a moral debate.

Greyson eases me backward until I’m lying in the center of the bed, the blankets rumpling beneath me.

He follows, bracing his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me, hovering above me like a shelter.

His kisses move from my lips to my neck, my aching breasts and my belly.

He travels down further, and my thighs are shaking.

It’s been so long since I felt this—since anyone has—”Oh my God!” I gasp as his tongue finds me.

He lifts up, his gaze searches my face again—checking, reading.

“You okay, Trouble?”

I nod, breathless.