He trailed off, but his eyes were on her now. Really on her. And the air in the kitchen shifted, thickened with something that had nothing to do with humidity. He closed the distance between them in two steps, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “I wouldn’t have turned you away tonight.”
She should step back. She should remind him that they'd agreed this was a bad idea, that they were too different, that she couldn't date a man who lived surrounded by things that wanted to eat her.
She didn't step back. “We shouldn’t.”
“Probably not,” he said, his voice rough. "We decided we were better as friends."
"We did."
His forehead dropped to rest against hers. She could feel his breath against her lips, could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of her tank top. Her heart pounded, which was ridiculous—she'd been shot at tonight without her pulse climbing this high.
"Dove."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to kiss you now."
“Okay.”
His mouth found hers, and for a long moment, the world narrowed to just this—the taste of him, his hands sliding into her hair, the soft sound he made against her lips when she pressed closer.
When they finally broke apart, they were breathing hard.
"That was a bad idea," Dove said.
"Terrible."
"We should stop."
"Definitely."
He kissed her again. Deeper this time, hungrier, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. She went willingly, her fingers fisting his shirt, every rational thought dissolving like morning mist over the swamp.
"Bedroom?" he murmured against her throat.
"God, yes."
He took her hand and led her down the hallway, past the dozens of photos of his parents hanging on the walls, past the cardigan on the couch and the lavender scent of a woman's absence. Dolly was bellowing again outside, a prehistoric song that should have been terrifying but somehow felt like approval.
The bedroom was dim. The only light came from the moon through warped blinds and the faint glow from the hallway. The air was thick. The fan overhead pushed it in slow, dutiful circles that did nothing to cool her skin. She registered the bed—heavy cypress frame, an old quilt with soft places worn thin—and then Trent’s hands found her hips and thought scattered.
He kissed like he’d been holding his breath for hours and finally remembered how to inhale.
She rose into it, into him, into the simple movement of his mouth and hands. Wood creaked. A gator bellowed again, lower and farther off. The noise threaded under the thud of her pulse.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his breath rough against her lips, not really asking.
“I’m not gonna do that,” she said, and pulled him back down.
He tasted like cold coffee with a dollop of cream. His stubble scraped the edge of her jaw and sent a tingle sliding beneath her skin. When his fingers slipped under the hem of her tank, she lifted her arms. Cotton skimmed up, and cool air licked the sweat collecting at the base of her throat. She shivered, and his mouth moved there like he’d felt the tremor through his palms.
She knew her body. Knew what worked and what didn’t. This—this worked. The weight of him when he pushed her back onto the mattress. The spread of his hands on her ribs, wide and warm. The way he paused when he reached her bra, a half-second of silent question that she answered by arching up so he could get it off.
His mouth closed over her nipple and her spine went taut, the quilt bunching lightly under her shoulder blades as she shifted closer. He was solid between her thighs as she hooked her legs around him.
He kissed a line down her chest, tongue catching in the shallow dip of her belly, and she went liquid in the places that had been locked tight since the gunshots. He worked the button of her jeans, and denim rasped over her thighs, over her knees, and snagged on her heel. He tugged, she kicked, the jeans gave, and she laughed—breathless and a little wild.
He stilled at the sound.
