That weight of attention.
The way the air shifts when J.T.Lawrence fixes his gaze on something he wants.
And right now…that something is me.
I’m standing in the middle of his living room with a paintbrush in my hand and army-green streaks across my jeans, but the second I sense him behind me my skin prickles.
I should go take a shower.
Get cleaned up.
God knows he should too, judging from the fact that he’s been hauling furniture and lifting lumber all day.
But the truth?
The sight of him like this is doing things to me.
He’s leaning against the wall like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.
That thin flannel snap shirt he’s wearing is stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and his jeans look like they’ve been through a war.
Dust on the knees.
Paint and scuff marks on the thighs.
The kind of worn-in denim that hugs a man’s body in a way that makes a woman start thinking very unladylike thoughts.
And the look on his face?
Oh, he’s thinking the same thing I am.
Alone at last.
Heat slides through me, slow and steady, pooling low in my belly.
But I have something I want to ask him.
A little fantasy that’s been rattling around in my head for days.
It’s ridiculous.
And dirty.
Something the old version of me—the woman Mike Stevens married and left—never would have dared say out loud.
But that woman isn’t here anymore.
“C’mere,” J.T.growls from across the room.
My stomach flips.
I bite my bottom lip and walk toward him.
The second I’m close enough, his big hands clamp down on my hips and he drags me into him like gravity itself bends to his will.
His head dips.
And then he kisses me.
