“Me neither, Red.” My eyes stay glued to her hair. Truthfully, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. All I know is that I want to savor this.

Savor her.

Because I have a sinking feeling that when we step out of these bales, things will look a lot different. The dusty, grassy smell will drift away, and reality will seep back in.

The reality where I know better than to go after a girl like Willa Grant.

A reality where I’m still too fucking wounded to trust someone.

“Are you gonna make a move, Eaton? Or just stand here petting me?”

My head shakes and my chest rumbles as I chance a look at her eyes. Clear and certain, so bright.

I feel safe when I’m scowling, but it’s getting harder and harder to look at Willa Grant without smiling.

It’s with a smile on my lips that I lean in and press my mouth to hers. She’s soft and willing. She parts for me with such ease. Welcomes the kiss.

Takes me.

When I groan, she whimpers into my mouth, and I swallow her sweet little sounds. Wanting to keep them for myself, memorize them for a rainy day.

It’s been years since I’ve been touched like this, and my chest cracks open at the feel. The contact. The closeness. The intimacy. Hands sliding up over my chest, pressing up over my neck before gripping either side of my skull. Dainty fingertips behind my ears.

I didn’t even realize how badly I missed the attention of a woman. And not just any woman. The woman I’ve glued my attention to from the moment I saw her.

The woman who’s thawed my icy heart in a matter of weeks.

Heartless. That’s what Talia called me in her letter. And I believed her.

I still do.

But it’s hard to deny the feeling in my chest right now. The ache. The heat.

It’s especially hard to deny the bulge in my pants. The one I’m grinding against Willa.

That part does have me feeling like a teenager.

She moans, hiking a leg up at my waist, opening herself to rub back against me, and I take that opportunity to swipe my tongue into her mouth, to shape my fingers into a fist in her hair.

To go with the intensity of the moment, even though I thought I could keep it sweet and slow. That’s the thing about Willa. She doesn’t strike me as the sweet and slow type of girl.

Every time I draw away, she pushes harder. Every time I glare at her, she prods, hoping for a reaction. And now she’s getting it.

“Willa—”

“Don’t stop.” Our teeth clash as she talks against my mouth. What started off reverently is quickly turning frantic. A well-crafted facade coming apart at every seam.