Page 100 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake watched wondrously. “At least it’s not just me.”

Monroe groaned and pushed herself off the side of the building. “It’s not just you, Blake. I hope that’s pretty clear by now.”

“Can I come over this week? And we can talk or hang out or . . .” Blake suddenly looked much more shy than the woman who’d just backed Monroe up against the building and kissed her within an inch of her life.

It was ridiculously charming.

Monroe held her hand over her chest. “Blake Bettencourt, are you propositioning me?”

Blake leaned forward, so close that their lips were almost touching. “That depends on whether or not I’m making a fool of myself.”

Monroe frowned. Not at Blake, specifically, but at the ridiculousness of her statement. She reached up and toyed with one of the tendrils of Blake’s hair, wrapping the ends around her fingers. “You could never, ever make a fool of yourself. Not with me.”

The seriousness of her own words cut through Monroe’s lust. Barely.

They could not stay here. Monroe would do something that she’d regret, like making Blake’s first time with a woman a voyeur’s dream. Cypress Falls had come a long way, but she didn’t know if they—or she—were quite ready for that.

But she couldn’t pretend that the idea of having Blake in her bed—with enough time to taste and touch and explore—didn’t make her press her thighs together to alleviate the building pressure.

She just hoped that Blake’s shoulder would be okay in a few days⁠—

Monroe thought of herself as an observational person, which is why the truth knocked into her with such surprising force that she had to take a step back, looking at Blake in amazement. “You didn’t really hurt your shoulder, did you?”

Blake laughed and looped her arm through Monroe’s, dragging her back toward civilization. “A lady never reveals her secrets.”

As Monroe let herself be led back to the blanket they’d set out what felt like ages ago, her honest words came easily: “Trust me, Blake. You don’t need any ruse to get me to do what you want.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Blake had felt powerful. That was the only word to describe all the sensations that had licked through her while she’d had Monroe pushed up against the wall of the rental building, a fire burning between them that didn’t seem to be abating.

If anything, the flames were only fanning higher. So high that Blake had done something insane like create a ruse to get Monroe alone so that she could kiss her again.

Who was she?

Blake honestly didn’t know these days, but she also didn’t care.

Because this person—the one she was being introduced to in bits and pieces as she surrendered to all the things inside of her that she’d refused to give voice to over the years—existed in a skin that Blake very much liked.

She glanced at Monroe, who was seated next to her on the blanket she had so graciously agreed to share.

Denny and Maisie, along with an ever-energetic Holland, who’d joined them about thirty minutes ago, after returning her own paddleboard, were playing in the water.

It all felt so . . . right.

Blake glanced over at Monroe, who was watching the trio. “At least it looks like they’ll do a good job tiring her out,” Blake assessed.

Monroe leveled her with a soft smile. “Don’t bet on it. She has at least a few more hours in her before she gets cranky but still doesn’t want to go to bed.”

“It’s . . .” Blake forgot what she was saying when she felt Monroe’s fingers ghost across her own, hidden between their almost touching legs.

She tried to remember her train of thought, except that when she looked at Monroe’s playful eyes again, she realized that Monroe had known exactly what she was doing.

Blake scooted a little closer. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“No.” Monroe held her stare. “I’m trying to flirt with you. But I’m probably pretty rusty.”

Something that had become more familiar to Blake since Monroe had come into her life flared through her.