Crew winks at her again, and then, without warning, he slams his foot onto the accelerator and takes off, sending mud in every direction with the force of the tires. The slap of it hitting the truck’s exterior is loud, and Grace barely has enough time to roll up her window before she’s covered in it. She’s laughing, screaming, yelling at him to be careful as he starts to pull maneuvers that have the truck nearly tipping over. But it never does, even as he does a series of figure eights, each growing wider than the last.
Grace’s stomach hurts from how hard she’s laughing, especially when he gets pelted in the face by a rogue splash of mud flying in through the crack in his window. Crew brakes and puts the truck in park, assesses himself, and then blows a raspberry to get the residue off his lips. Grace is practicallysnortingin hysterics now, which attracts his narrow-eyed attention, and then he’s launching into action—leaning over without ceremony and rubbing his face against hers, leaving mud on her cheeks, forehead, and chin. She squeals as he begins to also tickle her in retribution, and it’s futile to try to push him off. No matter how hard she shoves, he’s impervious to her efforts. So easily, like she’s made of putty, he molds her to his liking until he’s hovering over her as much as he can with the center console between them.
When Grace’s laughter eventually dies down, they both begin to still, breathing heavily.
A moment that had, seconds ago, been full of mirth and silliness quickly shifts into something else entirely. The air between them grows thick with a charge so powerful it hums right along with the idling engine. Crew’s eyes search her face until they find her lips. Unfazed by the mud and grime, he stares at them for a long moment, studying them. Maybe trying to decide his best plan of attack. Whatever the case, Grace is growing increasingly impatient, so she takes her bottom lip into her mouth, catching it between her teeth. A signal—a message for him she hopes is loud and clear:I want you to kiss me. I want it so badly I can’t see straight.
Crew lets out a shuddering breath, and then he obliges.
Inexplicably, through some miracle within the fabric of the universe, the second kiss Crew Caldwell gives her is better thanthe first. Before, when they had yet to know the shape of each other’s mouths, there was apprehension and gentleness, shifting hesitantly into hunger and heat. There had been a clandestine quality to it, given their surroundings—doomed from the start to be dampened or interrupted. But here, now, they aren’t hiding. They don’t have to be quiet, and they don’t have to be delicate.
Because if the way Crew’s mouth slants over hers is any indication, there are no longer any questions of intent lingering between them. They’ve all been definitively answered.
With a hand at her neck and the pad of his thumb tracing her jaw, Crew opens her up, physically and emotionally. He strips her bare of all doubt with his tongue, rolling it against her own, and—surely—there must be sparks igniting in her mouth, because electricity is humming throughout her body. The damp, heated spot between her legs—the power source of it all—begins to throb with his ministrations. Crew groans into her mouth, and the sound has her hips rocking on instinct, a begging motion, a need unmet, desperate for the friction of his body against hers. But it’s awkward in the cab of the truck—the space is too small, and Crew isfartoo big to do anything comfortably besides kiss her. And even that won’t be a sustainable practice if they keep going like this, because with each brush of his tongue against hers, the growing need within Grace’s belly to touch, to feel, to be held by him is becoming overwhelming.
She wonders if he’s thinking the same thing, because his fervent kisses begin to slow, his grip on her neck loosening. A longing she’s never known spreads in her chest when he pulls back, separating himself from her. He’s breathing hard, his lips parted and swollen. His eyes are heavy lidded, nearly concealing the way his pupils are blown black and wide. Grace leansforward reflexively, the rope between them growing taut with the wreckage written all over his face. A sudden need, starving and urgent, takes over—she wants him toalwayslook like this; she wants to put her mouth on him and hear him groan her name.
She’s about a half second away from climbing over the console and settling onto his lap when Crew manages to utter a string of raspy, rumbling words. “Wait. Hang on.”
Still in a bit of a trance, Grace murmurs, “What?”
Crew exhales roughly, staring down at her contemplatively. He leans up on his arm, looks out the windshield, then starts chewing on the inside of his cheek. Grace is about to ask him what he couldpossiblybe thinking about when he looks back at her and says, “I want to strip you of these clothes and kiss every single inch of you.”
A wave of heat crashes through her and she’s nodding before she even realizes it—suddenly needing that more than she’s ever needed anything.
Crew smiles, his expression shifting into a mix of amusement and adoration. “But I also haven’t had a real shower in days and I—” A minute slip of his confidence, a softening of his eyes into something more vulnerable. “I want to make this good for you. Every part of it.”
Reaching up a hand, Grace traces her thumb over Crew’s bottom lip. “It already is.”
He presses a kiss there, then sighs. “Come back to the house with me,” he says quietly. He nips at her thumb, and his eyes darken slightly when he adds, “Come shower with me.”
There’s no logical reason why Grace should be nervous about this, but something about the idea of standing beneath ashowerhead next to a very naked Crew while they bathe feels frighteningly intimate. He’s already washed her hair, massaged knots from her muscles, literallyresether bones, but this—the nakedness, proximity, the steamy, low-lit shower—it makes her almost shiver in a wild combination of nerves and anticipation.
And maybe because she doesn’t answer him right away, or maybe because he’s got a habit of being his most honest self during these heated exchanges, Crew seems to need to reinforce his request, to solidify and vocalize his intentions.
He leans down and says, deep and rough in her ear, “And then I want to fuck you in my bed.” He bites the lobe, dragging it upward for a beat before releasing it, and Grace is temporarily blinded by stars bursting in her vision. Hot, needy, exploding stars.
“How does that sound, baby?” he asks, teasing, already knowing the answer. It sounds perfect.
It sounds like everything she’s ever wanted. And still, he toys with her, dialing up her arousal until it’s edging close to a fever pitch.
“Will you let me fuck you?”
Grace nods, unable to say—scream—the only word that can possibly follow that question. She nods and nods and nods until Crew is finally up, lifting himself off her and putting the truck into gear. She’s dazed, barely aware they’re moving until they’ve reversed out of the clearing entirely and are swinging around to catapult forward in the direction of the house.
Grace leans back into her seat and rubs her hands down her thighs, doing what she can to keep her mind occupied. Crew’s hand finds her knee, and Grace latches on to it with her own.
She sighs, grateful for the anchor of his touch—grateful thathe somehow knew to reach out and ground her before she floated away on a cloud of sexual frustration.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
They waste no time oncethey’re inside. Grace doesn’t wait for Crew to romantically peel the layers of her clothing away, and she doesn’t pay any mind to the state of her hair when she yanks it out of its ponytail and lets it fall down her shoulders. She simply, quickly bares herself, physically and otherwise, almost as soon as she walks through the door. Somewhere behind her, she hears the jingle of keys being dropped on a table, hears the shifting of boots being removed and slid over the hardwood floor. When she turns around, not a single piece of clothing remains on her body, and she finds Crew in his socks, frozen midway through unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes are the only part of him able to move, and slowly, they scan her up and down, then once more, and when he swallows after taking his fill, the lump in his throat is visible.
He holds her eyes as he rids himself of his shirt, then unbuckles his belt and toes off his socks. His jeans hang loosely at his hips, the elastic of his black briefs peeking out, and as Grace takes him in, she’s surprised at howdrunkshe feels, despite having not a single sip of alcohol. It’sCrew—he’s her own special brand of 90-proof. The massive, strong body built like he was supposed to be leading ancient armies into epic wars instead of running a cattle ranch. The fair skin contrasted by the dark beauty marks and freckles all over his shoulders and chest. The soft, depthless eyes that can say more truth with one look than most can utter in a lifetime. That sinful, beautiful mouth. That talented tongue.
He is everything that is good and right and perfect in the world, and Grace cannot fathom spending one more second not touching him.
She crosses the distance between them, caring little for the jeans that still remain on his person, and launches herself into his arms. He bends ever so slightly, catching her beneath her thighs, and hoists her up until her legs are bracketed around his middle, holding him tightly as she leans down and kisses him with everything she has. Everything she is and ever will be.
