"So why are we still standing here?"
That was a damn good question, and I didn't have a goodanswer except that walking away from her felt physically impossible.
"Because sometimes bad ideas feel like the only ones worth having," I said roughly.
She laughed, but it came out shaky. "That's a terrible justification."
"It's the only one I've got."
Her hand came up and rested against my chest, right over my heart, and I wondered if she could feel how hard it was beating.
"We can't," she said, but her fingers curled slightly into my shirt.
"I know."
"I mean it, Wyatt. We can't do this."
"I heard you the first time."
But I still didn't move, and neither did she, and the space between crackled with tension that had nowhere to go.
"Tell me to leave," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I'd intended.
"I already did."
"Tell me again."
She stared at me, her lips parted slightly, and I watched her struggle with what to say. Her hand was still fisted in my shirt, holding me there even while her words pushed me away.
I closed the distance between us and cupped her face in my hands, giving her exactly one second to pull away, to tell me to stop, to do anything except look at me like that.
She didn't move.
So I kissed her.
And the world narrowed down to just the two of us, the taste of her and the sound she made low in her throat when I deepened the kiss.
She kissed me back immediately, hungrily, like she'd been starving for this and had finally given herself permissionto take it. Her other hand came up and fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I backed her up against the barn wall without breaking contact.
The wood was rough against her back, but she didn't seem to care. She just opened wider and kissed me harder, and I groaned against her lips because this was everything I'd been trying not to think about for weeks.
Her taste. Her heat. The way she fit against me like she was made for it.
I slid one hand into her hair and angled her head back, taking the kiss deeper, and she made a sound that went straight through me. Her leg came up and hooked around my hip, pulling me flush against her, and I had to brace one hand on the wall beside her head to keep from losing all control.
"Wyatt," she gasped against my mouth, and the way she said my name, breathless and desperate and wanting—nearly undid me.
"Tell me to stop," I said roughly, trailing my mouth down her jaw to her throat. "Tell me this is a bad idea."
"It is a bad idea," she panted, but her hands were sliding under my jacket, her fingers hot against my skin through my shirt.
"Then tell me to stop," I repeated, my teeth grazing the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.
"I can't." The admission came out broken. "God, Wyatt, I can't."
I kissed her again, harder this time, pouring weeks of wanting and restraint into it. She met me with equal intensity, her nails digging into my back through my shirt, her body arching into mine.
This was reckless. This was stupid. This was going to complicate everything.
