Page 72 of River & Rue

“Do you want me to?”

“Want you to what?”

His head tilts subtly, angling toward mine so I feel the breath of his next words against the shell of my ear. The words themselves, however, I feel much farther south.

“Do you want me to come?”

It’s official. I’ve absolutely lost my mind because his innocent question sounds like straight-up filth.

Before I can stop it, a wild giggle leaps out of me.

River cocks his head, his mouth amused but his eyes confused. Poor guy. I pat his chest, then spy his belly button, a lovely oval that’s too tempting to resist. So I stick my finger in it. He recoils with a wheezing laugh, grabbing my hand at the same time and pinning it to his chest.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. “But I’m driving.”

“Hell no. My keys, my golf cart.”

His free hand dives for the front pocket of my shorts. I yelp and swivel away, but he moves with me. Within seconds, both of my hands are cuffed in one of his.

“No fair, Sasquatch!”

The gleam in his eyes sharpens, and he stops playing nice. He moves like a snake, sinuous and swift. I turn into a frantic pelican, squawking as I hop, jerk, and bend away from his darting hand. A few times, he gets close enough that our bodies brush. My hip, his thigh. His bicep, my chest. With each contact, the fire inside me grows until I’m breathless from more than laughter.

Unfortunately, I’m so focused on his every twitch that I don’t notice him corralling me into a corner until my butt hits the railing.

Blowing hair out of my eyes, I send him my flintiest glare. If I weren’t also folded in half with my arms locked to keep him away, I’m sure he’d be appropriately cowed.

As it is, he merely chuckles.

“Give it up, Princess. You’re trapped.”

In a last-ditch effort, I widen my eyes and invite a quiver into my lower lip, then tug feebly against his hold.

“You’re hurting me.”

He isn’t—he’s actually been careful not to—but I ignore the pang of guilt. I really want to drive the golf cart.

River drops my hands, his smile disappearing. “I’m so sor⁠—”

“Ha!”

I lunge for the opening between his body and front railing, flying past him toward the steps. When I reach them, I leap.

Unfortunately, River has six inches and pounds of muscle on me. He uses the leverage to vault over the railing beside the steps right as I go airborne.

My clear landing vanishes, replaced by a human wall. I don’t even have time to scream before I slam into him.

He catches me like he did on the trail, but without the complication of a hurt back, he’s unbelievably agile. Besides having the air knocked from my lungs, there’s no discomfort at all—at least until he straightens to his full height, at which point I realize just how different this is from our trail collision.

Only one of his arms is around my waist. The other is hooked around my right thigh, the attached hand planted firmly on my left ass cheek. The other major deviation is entirely on me—I have no idea how it happened, but my limbs are pythoned around his neck and waist.

“Choking,” he rasps.

I lighten up the pressure but don’t lean back, unwilling to look him in the eye. Not only am I confused about how I ended up like this, his hand is still casually sealed to my ass.

Then River starts shaking with silent laughter, and the location of his hand becomes the least of my concerns.

A problematic part of my anatomy—still sensitive from my self-care session last night—is pressed to his warm, hard abdomen. As he laughs, the muscles jump up and down. One might even say they vibrate.