Page 33 of When the Smoke Clears

I lowered to my knees and then eased onto my back beside her.

“Don’t let it go.”

“I’m not,” I said.

“See? Easier on your neck.” She rolled toward me, head resting on her bent arm.

“You’re not even looking at the kite.” I chuckled.

Everleigh hummed. “I like looking at you.”

“You’re making my dick hard, and I can’t let go of the kite, so you’ll have to adjust it for me.”

She giggled. “My looking at you gives you an erection?”

I rolled my head toward her for a second as she blushed. “After this morning’s kitchen table incident, yes.”

“Incident? Is that what we’re calling it?”

I peered at the kite and smirked. She was right. Kites were meant to be flown while lying on the ground.

“What are you doing?” I asked, stiffening as she rested her hand on my chest and buried her face in my neck.

“You smell so good. What is that? Vetiver?”

“It’s sweat, Everleigh. You’re making me sweat, and I’m going to lose this kite if you don’t stop touching me.”

“It’s definitely vetiver.” She crawled onto me.

“Everleigh,” I warned, tipping my chin and stretching my arms toward the sky as she crawled on top of my chest, kissing my neck up to my jaw.

“Vetiver oil is called the oil of tranquility. Did you know that?”

I cocked my head to the side to see past her to the kite. “Then it’s not working because I don’t feel tranquil.”

“How do you feel?” She teased my earlobe with her teeth.

The kite headed behind us, losing altitude.

“It’s going to crash. I need to stand up.” I spun the string around the reel as quickly as possible, but she was in my way, and my dick was hard. And I didn’t want to hold on to the kite. I wanted to grab her ass and kiss her senseless.

The kite headed toward the trees, so I sat up, and she fell off my chest onto the ground. I jumped to my feet and sprinted in the opposite direction to keep it out of the trees, my hands speedily winding string.

It was close. So close. Too close.

Crash!

Her kite landed in a tree.

Everleigh cupped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she gaped at the kite.

“Sorry.” I cringed before following the string to the scene of the crash. “But I blame you.”

She gasped and then jogged ahead of me. “William, I wasn’t the one flying the kite.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“From India? My dad made this kite. It took him nearly two hundred hours to construct it. Then he handwove the string from silk and cotton. Do you have any idea how long it takes to handweave three hundred yards of kite string?” She stopped under the tree, head back, hands parked on her hips.