Shocked at the pain, Hawk stared down at her. Jesus fuck, had he fucking fallen for her?

Unable to get past the idea, he watched her picking peppers.

After she added a couple of tomatoes and lifted her basket, he took it from her. “I got it.”

“Um, okay.” Her brow furrowed as she looked at him.

He carried her produce and his back to Mako’s cabin. After setting it on the kitchen island, he hesitated as she put away the greens. Dammit, he didn’t know what to say or do. He wanted to be with her…and continuing down this path was a fucking terrible idea.

“Hawk.” She shoved the fridge door closed and handed him a beer. “Why don’t you drink this and tell me what’s wrong.”

That wasn’t going to happen.

Something else could, though. “Where’s Aric?”

“JJ and Regan are making sugar cookies and invited him to help decorate them.”

Hawk stared. “Christ, even a bath won’t get that shit off.”

“Mmmhmm. He’ll have colorful hands until the food coloring fades.” Kit chuckled, totally unworried about her son’s appearance. Because she was the kind of mother who simply wanted her boy to be happy.

Hawk set his beer down unopened. When he put his hands around her waist, he expected her to tense.

She didn’t. Because she trusted him.

He wouldn’t betray that trust. Not ever.

Setting her palms on his chest, she tilted her head. “What are you up to, mister?”

Her dark eyes were the color of mahogany polished to a lustrous shine. “You have beautiful eyes.”

Those eyes narrowed.

So suspicious. She should be.

He smiled slightly. “Frosting cookies usually takes a while.”

It took her a moment, then her gaze lifted to her quarters upstairs.

Yep, she got it.

Dear sweet heavens, Hawk had skills.

When they’d gotten into her bedroom, he’d stripped her and somehow, she’d ended up on her back on the bed. With an evil smile, he said their time was limited so she’d need to get off quickly, and he pushed a pillow under her ass. Still clothed, he’d knelt on the bed between her legs and kissed his way down her body.

Only…he kept going. Past her breasts. Past her stomach. He edged back on the bed so he could reach her thighs. His lips were warm, his beard somehow both scratchy and soft and so distracting.

“Hawk, no,” she whispered. He’d wanted to do this in the tent, and she hadn’t let him. Obadiah—heck, all the PZs—never went down on their women, saying women were smelly and foul and nauseating.

“Kit, yes,” Hawk murmured. His big hands ran up and down her thighs, then his thumbs stroked the tender skin next to her groin. “I doubt your fuckwit husband was into this, which means it shouldn’t trigger you. Right?”