Man, I like the feel of her. I like how well she fits, like I don’t have to lower myself to accommodate her. And her smell …
It’s like milk and honey, the kind of comfort food that’s both wholesome, yet something you crave, too. Something you can never get enough of.
“I’m comfortable with this,” she says. “You?”
“No objections.”
Next, she puts her hands in my hair. And tugs. It sends a wave of sensation from my scalp down my neck, through my spine, and down my legs. “This?”
“Uh huh,” I say stupidly.
She brings one hand from the back of my hair across my neck, stopping to play with my earlobe in a way that makes my head lean down without my say-so.
And then she moves her hand to my cheek. And
“I love how your beard smells,” she admits, closing her eyes and breathing in while she puts her fingers softly in my beard, running them over the dense whiskers gently. “It’s so woodsy. Like an old bourbon-soaked oak barrel.”
“It’s my beard balm,” I say, fighting to keep my eyes open as she strokes my beard.
Shoot.
I didn’t know how much I liked someone touching my beard. My mom used to play with my face when I was little and couldn’t sleep, and Serena rarely touched it, and never in a way that felt so … good.
“Too much?” she asks, removing her hand.
“Not at all.”
“Is touch your love language?” she asks suspiciously. "You’re comfortable with everything.”
Maybe it’s the vulnerability that comes with having someone touch me the way Kayla is touching me, but when I open my mouth, I speak before I think. “I can’t see myself being with you and being able to keep my hands off you in public. So tell me what you’re comfortable with, and I’ll make sure I don’t cross that line.”
She smiles, biting her lip again. “I trust you not to cross it. But does that mean you plan to get right up to the line, Captain?”
“Boss, any man lucky enough to be given a line by you—he’d do well tomovethere.”
She laughs. “Maybe we should make a list. Holding hands is an obvious must,” she says.
“And hugging,” I say, maybe a little too eagerly. “Arms around each other. That kind of thing.”
“Agreed. But no butt-touching.”
I cough in surprise. “Take it easy, there. I ain’t looking to get kicked out of church.”
She laughs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.” She pauses. “And kissing?”
“What about it?” I ask, feeling my heart rev like her Mercedes at a green light.
“How about one kiss per outing,” she says. Her voice is soft. Almost breathless.
“One? Hmm. Are we talking lips or cheeks?”
“Lips.”
“Cheeks are fair game?”
“If the moment calls for it.”
“In my experience, that moment calls a lot,” I say.
