Just fuck it.
I move slowly, giving him all the time in the world to push me away as I slide a hand up his chest and around his neck to the back of his head.
He’s pliable and easy, his gaze flitting back and forth from my mouth to my eyes as I pull his head down to mine.
“I know better than to fuck people I want to work for,” he murmurs.
“Maybe I can simply endorse you for…good behavior.”
“I can’t decide if you’re the nicest evil person or the evilest nice person I’ve ever met.”
“Let’s just say I’m complicated.”
His lips brush mine. My eyes drift closed, and I let myself feel.
The scratch of his short beard against my mouth.
His large hand sliding down my spine to linger just above my ass.
The scent of sweat and pine and something else intriguing but just out of reach.
The swipe of his tongue across my lower lip.
The desperate need tightening and twisting deep in my center.
I should be tending to his wound. It’s the kind thing to do.
But I’m enjoying the way he’s teasing my lips, the taste of his lips on my tongue while I thread my fingers through his thick hair.
There’s no hurry.
No desperation.
Just a game of slow, languid kisses on a cool mountain night.
Exploring.
Learning.
Indulging.
His hand creeps lower on my back.
I angle closer, my legs parting wider to straddle his thigh.
He grabs my hip and pulls me tighter against his thick quad, his solid muscle right under my aching clit, and I barely stifle a whimper of satisfaction at the friction.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue wrangling with his while my hips start an ancient rhythm against his leg.
God, I miss physical touch.
Holding someone’s hand.
An arm casually draped around my shoulders.
Stripping someone out of his shirt and fumbling with his pants.
Chopping wood is good.
