She turns back, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I immediately backtrack. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling like an idiot.
“But why did you ask me that?” she presses.
I find myself walking toward her, then stopping myself before I get too close. “You smell potent, almost dense.”
“I smell bad?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
“Not bad,” I clarify, my gaze dropping to her lips for a second before I catch myself. “Strong.”
“Oh,” she says, a small understanding dawning in her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Are you... do you have enough suppressants?” I ask, my concern overriding my better judgment.
“No,” she admits. “But I’ll get some.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, my mind racing with the implications.
She’s watching me, her expression unreadable. I notice a small trickle of blood making its way down her forehead from the bandage.
“You’re bleeding again,” I say, reaching out instinctively.
I press my thumb against the wound, wiping away the blood. I bring my thumb between us, the crimson smear a contrast to my skin.
“My head hurts a little,” she says, her voice soft.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Me too,” she replies.
She looks at my thumb, then up at me. I can smell her scent thicken, the sweet, intoxicating aroma filling the small space between us. I can feel my own need thump in my head, a primal, undeniable urge that I have to fight to control.
“We can’t do this,” she says, her voice husky.
“I know,” I say, my own voice rough with desire. Then, slowly, I ask, “Why can’t we?”
“It’s complicated,” she says, her gaze dropping to my lips.
I know it’s complicated. I know she’s involved with Liam, that I’m the sheriff, that this is the worst possible time and place. But in this moment, none of that seems to matter. All that matters is the woman standing in front of me, the woman who smells like home and hope and everything I’ve been missing.
Instead, I trace her lips with the thumb still stained with her blood, watching the red smear across the soft flesh. It’s a primal act, a claiming I can’t stop. She whimpers, a small, broken sound that vibrates against my skin.
“You’re a sheriff,” she says. “He would never forgive me.”
I press down on the bow of her lip, a silent command to stop talking, to just feel. It has been so long since I had her this close. I can’t think straight. I don’t want to.
The scent of her, sweet and sad and now laced with a sharp edge of desire, fills my head, pushing out everything else—the job, the rules, the consequences. It’s a thick, intoxicating fog, and I’m willingly lost in it.
“I know, Millie,” I say, the words rough, barely recognizable as my own.
She blinks, her long lashes fluttering like moth wings against a porch light. I watch her eyes drift down to my thumb, still pressed against her mouth. The air crackles between us.
Then her tongue is there, tracing the tip, a small, tentative flick that sends a bolt of lightning straight to my groin. It’s not a seduction; it’s a surrender. And it’s my undoing.
