‘I’m not pretending.’ Our knees are touching, a strangely intimate feeling, and he pulls me closer by warm hands at my waist. ‘Are you?’

I don’t expect a bit of what I do next.

All at once, my lips crash against Colt’s, the taste of celebratory peach beer on both our parts invading my senses. It’s not at all like the tame, orchestrated kisses we’ve shared in the public eye. It’s unbridled, raw, and much needier. His hands travel down my body, marvelling at every curve in a way no man’s hands have marvelled before. I wrap my legs around his torso, pulling our bodies closer to one another. His fingers tangle in my hair, his eyelashes fluttering against mine. I move a hand to his chest and give him a little nudge in the right direction.

‘May,’ Colt laughs as he falls back against the floor of the truck’s bed with a grin that possibly, maybe, couldn’t be any hotter.

I lean down and kiss him again, and his grip on my hips tightens, fervent and searching. His fingers just brush the hem of my shirt. Keep going, I want to beg him.

‘What if someone sees us?’ he murmurs, his index fingers hooked through my belt loops as I lean back and do a quick three-sixty scan for the both of us.

I make my decision pretty quickly. ‘Then,’ I lean right back down and whisper my next words at his ear. ‘To hell with ’em.’

With a grin, Colt pulls me back down to him, and he presses his lips to mine. My senses are overwhelmed in the most blissful way – the taste of the beer, the feeling of his skin against mine as he tosses my tank top aside. My hands roam until they find their way beneath his shirt, and I pull it right off him as quickly as I can. I relish every beautiful part of him. There is a shit ton I hate about lacrosse guys, but I will never complain about the wonderfully defined muscles and the abs. The perfectly toned six-pack on CJ Bradley. I have no comments or suggestions. I hum happily as my fingers trace their way down the sharp V just below those abs, and Colt gives my ass a squeeze, pushing our bodies close enough together that I can clearly feel the evidence of just how extraordinary he thinks I am. My eyes widen. Oh. My. God.

‘This okay?’ he murmurs into my hair. His hands are in my back pockets. Back pockets. We’re in the bed of his stunning truck. This is, as much as I hate to admit it, actually a dream come true. Yes, it’s absolutely okay. It’s beyond okay.