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I cup his face with both hands, gently squeezing my palms against his jaw. “That’s how it’s done.”
“Too dangerous. I’m installing a damn net next. What happened to your fear of heights?”
I grin. “I told you. When I’m in control, it’s fine.”
Quinn gives me the stink eye.
Why does he look so hot when he’s pissed?
And “dangerous” is definitely the way he’s holding me, off the floor, flush up against him.
It’s the feral way he’s staring, sending my heart racing.
God, I want to kiss him so bad—and his lips land on mine before my thought finishes.
He pushes into my mouth angrily, as if he wants to tame it for talking back, for taking risks I shouldn’t.
His arms close around my hips, his hands clasp my ass, and then I’m tasting his heat, his passion, his fury.
I shouldn’t love this kind of bossy, grumpalicious kiss as much as I do, but good luck resisting.
No woman ever had a prayer when a man this hot, this intense, and this maddeningly caring lifts her up in his storm.
Thrilled, I not only wrap my arms around his neck, I hook my legs around his waist, sealing us together.
His body is too perfect, too firm, too muscular.
Nothing like the men back home who carve lean bodies with orderly protein and trips to the gym.
Quinn’s country edge comes naturally, sculpted by real work, sweat, tears, and the harsh, scary things I’m sure he did as a soldier and a secret agent man.
Holy hell!
Even his smell makes me delirious, earthy and masculine, like lying underneath a huge pine tree.
It’s enough to drive me mad, and I flush when I realize I’m grinding against him, dragging a harsh groan out of him against my tongue.
“Peach, fuck,” he snarls, pulling his hips away from mine—only for a split second before he collides with me again, this time making me feel the raging bulge in his jeans.
Every vicious inch of him catches my folds with just the right friction behind a few thin layers of fabric.
It’s so on.
I don’t think the entire town walking into the barn right now could stop the category five full-body lashing Quinn Faulkner is about to lay on every bit of me.
I can’t help it—I shudder.
I’ve never been that into sex, but now? I want it like a crazy person.
He pulls out of the kiss, and like the last two times, I feel his regret, like he shouldn’t have kissed me at all. It’s a total contrast to the passion flooding his kisses barely a second ago.
Without a word, his hold lessens, and a war rages behind those emerald-green eyes.
Disappointed and still throbbing, so wet I could die, I unhook my legs and lower them to the floor.
“Those ribs are probably done by now,” he says, trying to sound like he isn’t as breathless as I am.
Screw the stupid ribs.
Is he trying to make me have a stroke?
My body sags with frustration. He can’t even hint at why he goes all cold shoulder, and I know I’m not revolting—not with how he attacks my mouth like a starving beast.
I drop my arms from around his shoulders. “I’m sure they’re done. I made a potato salad to go with them, and coleslaw.”
Taking my elbow, he guides us to the door. “I’m not used to having someone cook for me all the time.”
Cooking is hardly what I’d like to discuss.
Still, I’m too confused to ask him point-blank what the hell just happened.
“Funny, I’m not used to cooking for anyone, either.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re an amazing woman, Tory. In the kitchen and…”
“And?” I repeat, stopping and casting him a harsh look.
“…and on those silks, safety shit aside,” he says, coughing once into his hand. “You glide like an angel acrobat.”
He’s so hard to crack, acting like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t just grab my ass and glorify my tongue and give me a horrible tease of that thick, hard flesh below the belt.
I’ve never gone pole dancing, but for Quinn, naked? A girl can learn.
Jeez.
It’s not like I want him to ask me to marry him or something.
Is that it? Is he so old-fashioned he’s torn up about taking me to bed, the wall, or right here on the floor?
Any old surface will do.
I just want to jump his bones.
A little affair like Granny said. It would finally release this hellish tension between us.
It’s there all the time, and I’m sick and tired of pretending it’s not.
I think about that the entire time we’re eating, picking at my food, averting my eyes every time I see his lips chewing. I know too well what that mouth is capable of, and the fact that he’s wasting it on delicious ribs instead of decadent, sex-crazed me leaves me reeling.
Afterwards, when I go upstairs to shower, it’s a miracle I haven’t just pounced on the table like a cat and thrown myself at him.
