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And when he dips his head, I loop my arms around his neck.

And then, when he kisses me, I kiss him back.

Oh, do I kiss him back.

I expect it to be clunky, but the moment our lips touch, they start moving together like muscle memory. His breath is tinged with the whiskey he’s been sipping all night, and my lips part in an invitation. His mouth moves slow and deliberate against mine, almost like he’s trying to start slow and make this last.

Most men treat kissing like a pit stop on the way to sex, but not Wyatt. He kisses like it’s the main event, not the lead-up.

He moans when I trace my tongue along his bottom lip, hoping to capture more of his taste. His tongue flicks against mine in response, and it’s just a little test, but it opens the gates to a more ferocious kiss.

We absolutely devour each other, and I forget all about the fact that I’m kissing Wyatt Patterson, the boy I’ve known for years. All I can think about is how I want more, more, more of this man. My hands tangle in the strands of hair peeking out beneath his cowboy hat. When I tug, a groan falls from his mouth into mine, and I suck in the noise, wanting to hear it again.

His hands travel down my spine, squeezing me against his tall frame, and I trail my fingers down his chest to dip them into his belt loops to pull him closer until there’s no space left between us. He takes me with his mouth. A deep groan scrapes through his throat, and my nipples tighten to hard points at the noise.

He tugs my hair back to get better, deeper access to my mouth. I arch into his body, and a rush of heat tingles down my spine when I feel him hard against me. He’s hard enough that people will notice, and I start blazing with need. I imagine having him inside me, and the heat just continues to spiral until I’m gasping.

This might be the best kiss of my life.

A throat clears into the mic, and the noise snaps me out of Wyatt’s spell. He stops kissing me first and pulls back with the smirkiest smirk I’ve ever seen on a man, but on him, it still manages to look boyishly charming.

“I said to kiss your partner good,” the fiddle player chastises in amusement, for everyone in the bar to hear. “Not make a baby on the dance floor.”

Wyatt gives her a half-sheepish, half-blasé shrug, but there’s something simmering beneath the surface of that expression, something intense.

He tucks me against his side, and from the tightness of his grip, I’m not sure he’ll ever let go.

“Have you seen this one?” he calls back to her. “I couldn’t help but get carried away, but we should probably head out, so we don’t accidentally make any babies on dance floors.”

The fiddle player winks at him. “Good call.”

27

PRESS PLAY

WYATT

We don’t make it home.

It turns out that we barely make it to my truck in the parking lot because I have to stop every few seconds to kiss her.

Step. Kiss. Step. Kiss. Step.

I push her against the cool metal of my truck, cupping my hand around the back of her head so she doesn’t bang her head.

I’m feeling pretty damn cocky about my master plan right now. I can’t believe that actually worked. I need to buy Saoirse a new fiddle. No, a whole collection of fiddles. No—what I really need to do is to stop thinking about fiddles when I’ve got this woman in my arms, kissing me like I’m oxygen.

All we do is kiss, but I don’t mind that it doesn’t lead to anything else. I could spend days just kissing her.

“Fuck, I can’t stop kissing you,” I mumble against her lips, the heat of the summer night draping over us. It’s hot out, and that’s only making me think about getting her out of that cotton dress and feeling her warm skin pressed against my body.

I want to make her sweat.

I slowly trace my tongue on her bottom lip, and then swipe my thumb along the underside of her breast. She releases this needy moan into my mouth that I want to replay over and over again for the rest of my life.

I can’t believe I’m finally kissing Dakota Cutler, and she’s kissing me back.

I could breathe in her prickly pear margarita taste all night until I suffocate and die a happy man, but I need to keep my shit together. Take this slow, tease her, so she wants more. She tugs on my hair, and it’s like that move is tied directly to my dick because it jerks to attention. My body is on fire, every nerve ending screams for more as I press into her. She feels incredible against me—so perfect that the thought of stopping, even to drive us home, feels like torture.