“You must’ve terrorized him.” Ryder smiles, wiping my tears with his thumbs. “He went to the bank and told them to give us an extension.”
“They did? The cottages are fine?”
Ryder nods.
“I’m so happy.” I nuzzle my face against his palm, then look up smiling. “And I don’t care if it’s too soon, either, I love you t?—”
His mouth comes down on mine.
The kiss is more desperate than hungry. Born of two people who thought they’d lost each other finding their way back. His lips move over mine with a fierceness that steals my breath, tongue sweeping in to taste and claim. I kiss him back just as frantically, fingers fisting in his T-shirt, trying to get closer even though there’s no space left between us.
We break apart, gasping.
“Can I come inside now?” I ask between ragged breaths. “Or are you still scared of being alone in a house with me?”
His eyes darken. Pupils blown wide with want.
“You should be the one scared to be inside a house alone with me.” His voice drops to that gravelly rasp that makes my toes curl. “I’ve got three books’ worth of material to test on you.”
Oh, now I wish I had annotated.
Ryder bends and scoops me up, with one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. I yelp in surprise, arms flying around his neck.
He carries me to the door and kicks it open with his boot.
“Ryder,” I gasp.
“Hold on, trouble.”
The house interior blurs past—hardwood floors, warm lighting, framed photos on the walls. I catch a glimpse of a lived-in space, comfortable and masculine, before he’s carrying me down a hallway and shouldering through another door.
His bedroom.
He sets me down on my feet beside a large bed covered in a dark blue comforter. The room is simple, clean, tidy. A dresser against one wall, a nightstand with a lamp, a window overlooking the fields. It smells like him—cedar and summer.
He cups my face, whispering, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He kisses me slowly. Thoroughly. He takes his time to learn what makes me sigh into him. His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, down my arms, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
I tug at his T-shirt. He helps, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside.
And oh.
Ryder shirtless is a revelation.
Lean muscles carved from years of physical labor. Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. A light dusting of hair across his chest. My hands map the terrain—the hard planes of his pecs, the ridges of his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones where they disappear into his jeans.
“Your turn,” he murmurs.
His fingers find the hem of my T-shirt. He lifts it slowly, giving me time to stop him. But I raise my arms instead, and he pulls it over my head. He stares at the simple black bra underneath, fascinated.
“Faye.” My name is a prayer on his lips.
He traces the edge of the cup with one finger, feather-light, and I shiver. His hands move to my jeans next, unbuttoning and unzipping with maddening slowness. He pushes the denim down my hips, and I step out of them, kicking off my shoes.
Now I’m standing in front of him in just my underwear, and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m precious and cherished and his—makes me shiver even in the hot summer air.
