His mouth claims mine with force, with memory, with everything he's been holding back since the moment he walkedaway from me on that porch. I gasp into it, the sound swallowed by him as he presses closer, body solid and unyielding.
It feels like coming home.
And like lighting a match.
My back hits the stacked hay, rough against my shoulders. His hands are on me immediately—one gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, the other sliding up my ribs, dragging my wet shirt with it.
I arch into him without thinking. Need it. Need his hands on my skin, not just through fabric.
He makes a sound low in his throat when I pull at his shirt, yanking it up. My palms find bare skin—stomach, ribs, the hard plane of his chest. Hot despite the rain. Solid. Real.
His mouth leaves mine just long enough to bite out, "Fuck, Hazel—"
Then he's kissing me again, harder, tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my knees go weak. His thigh pushes between mine, firm pressure exactly where I need it, and I gasp against his mouth.
"Yes," I breathe, not caring how desperate it sounds.
His hand slides higher, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through my bra. Testing. Waiting for me to stop him.
I don't.
I grab his wrist and press his palm flat against me, showing him exactly what I want.
He groans—rough, broken—and his hand tightens, thumb dragging across my nipple through the thin fabric. The frictionsends heat straight down my spine, pools liquid and insistent between my thighs.
I rock against his leg, can't help it, and his other hand drops to my ass, pulling me harder against him.
"Hazel." My name is a warning. Or a prayer. Maybe both.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, teeth scraping just enough to make me shiver. My head tips back against the hay, giving him access, and his tongue traces the line of my pulse.
I'm burning. Wet shirt, cold air, and I'm burning alive.
I should stop this.
The thought flashes bright and urgent. I should tell him I can't promise anything. That I'm still deciding. That in a few weeks I might leave and break him all over again.
But I don't want to stop.
I want him. Want this. Even if it's selfish. Even if it makes everything harder.
My hands find his belt. Fumble with the buckle. I need—I don't even know what I need except that it's him, now, here, before either of us can think better of it.
He catches my wrist. Pins it against the hay above my head.
"Wait," he breathes against my collarbone.
"No." I use my free hand to pull his face back to mine, kiss him hard enough to hurt. "Don't wait. Don't think. Just—"
His control snaps.
Both hands are on me now, shoving my shirt higher, baring my stomach, my ribs. His mouth follows the path his hands made, hot and wet and deliberate. He kisses the hollow beneathmy ribs. The soft swell above my bra. His teeth catch the edge of the fabric and I stop breathing.
"Eli—"
He looks up at me then, eyes dark and blown, lips swollen, asking the question without words.
I nod.
