The stop-start of my heart marked the beginning of the fall back to myself, galloping pulse slowing to a trot, then a lazy, deep shuffle as his tongue traced slow circles in my rippling flesh, a savoring. My fingers relaxed in his hair, smoothing toward his ears, settling for his shoulders as I rose, whispering his name. The sound drew him from the place he’d occupied in his mind and between my legs, arms shifting to plant his hands on either side of my hips as he rose, meeting my lips with a crash of desire. My fingers found his face, traced his jaw, splayed the angles, savored the scrape of his stubble against the softness of my palms. And my lips delighted in his, gratified and pliant and desperate for more.

The kiss broke with the roll of his forehead against mine, breath heavy and mingling, eyes closed, my hands on his face, his body hovering before me on hand and knee.

“You were right,” I said.

He backed away so he could see me, one brow arched to match his tilted smile. “I usually am.”

I laughed, shoving one massive shoulder uselessly.

“You gonna tell me what I was right about?”

“If you’re going to tease me, I might make you work for that answer.”

That brow climbed higher as he inched closer. “Careful what you wish for.”

And when he kissed me again, it was with the determination that he’d get the job done well.

He forged forward, laying me down with the motion, settling between my thighs but keeping his hips away.

A flash of petulance sparked in me—did he not want me as badly as I wanted him?—before I realized he still had jeans on. And, lips in motion, my hands slid down his body and to his belt.

He shifted into my hands at the jingle of his buckle, then the flick of his button and zip of his pants, and my hands slid into the V, reaching for him until both hands were full. He thrust into my hands, his crown brushing my belly, his body still too far away. One hand stayed where it was, stroking the length of him, testing its size, and the other hand slid around his hip, hooking the waistband to give it a tug.

It barely moved—his ass was too big and round and strong for a casual slipping off of pants. A chuckle from his nose before he broke the kiss, his hand moving to my face, then my collarbone, then my breast in passing. He knelt between my legs, his eyes roaming my body as his hands did their work. And I watched those hands, hands that tilled earth, harnessing it to grow what he wished. Strong, square hands with long fingers and rough palms that rid him of his jeans, but not before he pulled a condom out of his wallet.