Something in his expression shifted.
“You’re cold,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He stepped closer.
The heat coming off him hit her first.
Then his hands.
They slid beneath the hem of her shirt—rough, warm against her bare skin.
Izzy sucked in a sharp gasp.
His hands froze for half a heartbeat, fingers spread against her ribs, as if he could still talk himself out of this.
…and then he didn’t stop.
“Grant—”
“You’re freezing.”
His voice had gone low. Jagged.
He pulled the shirt up slowly.
She lifted her arms without a word.
The cool air of the tack room hit her soaked skin, and she shivered hard—sharp, involuntary. Then Grant stepped into her, and the staggering heat of his body swallowed the chill whole.
He made a low sound when he brushed against her breasts.
His hands slid up her sides, then into her hair, cupping the back of her head.
“You make this impossible,” he rasped, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her neck, his hands tightening on her hips as if he could anchor himself against the pull of her.
“Good.”
Something in him broke.
He kissed her.
Hard. Hungry.
He came down on her in a rush of rough denim and soaked cotton, pinning her between his body and the cold bite of the saddle racks at her back.
Like he’d been holding himself back for days and finally couldn’t anymore.
Izzy’s hands fisted in his shirt.
He backed her against the wall beside the saddle racks, one hand at her waist, the other tangled in her hair.
The room smelled like leather and Neatsfoot oil, sweet hay and rain—nothing like a Denver gallery. Nothing but him.
His mouth moved over hers, then down her jaw, along the sensitive line of her throat.
