That damn spot fairly hums now, a little tickle, and it’s all I can do not to lick it. Macon stares at my lips like he knows I still feel his touch. When did he get so close? The scent of his skin and the heat of his body carry on the breeze, moving over me like warm cotton.

I want to lean into that warmth, soak him up. Something catches my eye. North stands a few trees away. I’d forgotten he was here. He isn’t watching us—but scanning the perimeter—and is far enough not to overhear. But the sight is enough to snap me out of the haze I’d been pulled into.

I swallow down my bite of fruit. “Don’t flirt, Macon. It won’t make me more biddable.”

The intensity of his gaze plucks at my skin, but his expression remains neutral. I want to squirm. I’m vastly aware of how well he can read me and wonder what my expression gives away.

But then he simply smiles, all easy and relaxed. “Damn, you caught me out.”

I eye him warily because he relented a bit too easily. “Mm-hmm . . .”

He nods in agreement. “It was stupid, thinking you’d fall for that.” His voice lowers as he takes a small step forward. “You’re completely immune. Always were.”

My voice doesn’t appear to be working properly. “Right.”

Macon rests a hand on the tree trunk, his big body angling toward me. I press my back to the tree, all too aware that his inner arm almost touches my cheek. God, he has pretty eyes. I have issues.

A smile plays about his mouth as his gaze lowers to my mouth. His voice pours over me like hot syrup. “Doesn’t matter what I say, does it? I could tell you that watching you suck on that juicy bit of mango was one of the erotic highlights of my life. That I want to lick the pink, pouty curve of your lower lip to see if it’s sticky sweet.”

Gently, he touches the swell of my lip, and I feel it deep within my sex.

“Such a pouty fucking mouth,” he whispers. “Always frowning at me with that plump lower lip.”

I. Cannot. Breathe. I am flush with fever-bright heat.

And it is all Macon’s fault.

Macon, who watches as my breasts rise and fall with increasing agitation. Macon, who makes a pained grumble deep within his throat.

The tips of my breasts graze his chest with each breath I draw. His own breath hitches, and I make my move, leaning just close enough so that my mouth is by his ear. He doesn’t move an inch, but I see the tremor run through his shoulders.

I find myself smiling, though I’m too hot, too weak kneed to be truly amused. “Macon?”

He makes a sound that is the approximation of “Yes.”