Not light.
Not hesitant.
Firm enough that anyone watching understands exactly what it means.
Mine.
My palm skims the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, and yeah—I let my fingers brush the top of that gorgeous ass of hers before I pull my hand back into something more respectable.
I needed them to see.
I needed them to know.
Kelly McCrae is off limits.
Mike was never much of a man at these events.
When you put a room full of lumbermen and builders together, add whiskey and red meat, conversations get loud.
Opinions get sharper.
I’ve seen Kelly in the middle of those debates before—smart, articulate, unafraid.
And that little pissant husband of hers?
He’d sit there.
Silent.
Let her take the brunt of it.
Never step in.
Never back her up.
Not that she needed saving.
But a man should stand beside his woman.
I won’t stand for any of that tonight.
Call me old-fashioned.
Call me territorial.
I don’t give a fuck.
Dessert lands in front of us—some rich chocolate cake and two espressos.
“What's wrong?”she asks lightly, lifting her fork.
I fucking love that she’s not the kind of woman who pretends she doesn’t eat.
And I can’t wait to see what other appetites she has.
“What do you mean?”I say, leaning down to steal the bite of cake sitting on her fork.
“Hey!”She laughs and pulls back.
