"Hi yourself." His voice had that rasp again, the one that did things to her pulse. "Come here."
She crossed the room slowly, hyperaware of the way the soft cotton of her shorts moved against her thighs, how his gaze followed every step. When she reached the couch where he was sitting, he caught her hand and tugged her down beside him.
Close. So close she could feel the heat coming off his body. So close she could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
"We should talk about what happened," she said, even though talking was the last thing she wanted to do right now.
"Should we?" His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand, and the simple touch made her wet.
"We're living together. This complicates things."
"Everything about you complicates things, Vanessa." He turned toward her, and she could see the hunger in his eyes. "Doesn't mean I want to stop."
"What do you want?"
"Right now? I want to kiss you again. I want to find out if you taste as good as I remember, if you make those little sounds in the back of your throat when I touch you here." His finger traced the line of her collarbone, and she shivered.
"Dustin..."
"Tell me to stop if you don't want this. Tell me to go back to my room and pretend this afternoon never happened."
She should tell him to stop. Should be practical and cautious and protect herself from the inevitable heartbreak that came with wanting a man whose life had no room for permanence.
Except maybe it did. Maybe he felt what she felt. Maybe this crazy, impossible thing was happening to both of them, and maybe that was enough.
But his hand was on her skin and his eyes were full of promise, and she was tired of being careful.
"I don't want you to stop," she admitted.
His smile was slow and devastating. "Good. Because I've been thinking about touching you since the day I moved in, and that kiss this afternoon nearly killed me."
"Just touching?"
"Oh, baby. Touching is just the beginning of what I want to do to you."
The endearment sent heat flooding through her body. No one had ever called her that like it meant something. Her ex-boyfriends had been polite and distant, the kind of men who scheduled sex like business meetings and never made her feel like they might die if they didn't have her.
Dustin looked at her like he might combust if he didn't get his hands on her soon.
"Show me," she said, and watched his eyes go molten.
He leaned forward and kissed her, slow and deep and thorough, like he had all the time in the world to learn the taste of her mouth. His hands slid into her hair, tilting her head to give him better access, and she melted into him with a soft sigh of surrender.
This was different from the desperate kiss in the barn. This was deliberate and unhurried, a thorough exploration that made her toes curl and her hands fist in the soft cotton of his shirt. When he finally pulled back, she was breathing hard and aching for more.
"Better than I remembered," he murmured against her lips. "Much better."
His hands moved to her waist, thumbs tracing the strip of skin between her shorts and tank top, and she arched into the touch. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to be connected directly to his fingers.
"You're so soft," he said, and his voice had gone lower. "So beautiful."
No one had ever made her feel beautiful with just words and gentle touches. She'd always been praised for her intelligence, her competence, her ability to handle responsibility. But Dustin looked at her like she was a work of art he wanted to worship with his hands and mouth.
"I want to touch you," she admitted, her hands already sliding under his shirt to find skin and muscle.
"Touch me anywhere you want. I'm yours."
Yours. The word sent a thrill through her that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like being hers was what he'd been waiting for his whole life.
