Then Dale cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
“Mitchell wanted quarter-sawn oak with this specific grain pattern,” Dale explained, gesturing to the paneling. “It took us two days to find the right pieces, but I think we nailed it.”
I moved closer to examine the work, trying to ignore the way my skin heated when I got near Crew. The paneling was beautiful—smooth, perfectly finished, the grain catching the light.
“This is gorgeous,” I said, running my hand over the wood. The smooth surface made me think of skin, of touching Crew, of feeling those hard planes under my palms.
If I didn’t stop having these thoughts, I was going to have to ask Santa for a very personal toy.
“Crew did most of it,” Dale said. “The man’s got a gift.”
I glanced at Crew, who was watching me. His eyes were dark and hungry looking. He was, tracking the movement of my hand on the wood like he was imagining the same thing I had been. Me. Touching him. “The craftsmanship is impressive.”
The walkie-talkie on Dale’s belt crackled. “Dale, you there? I need you to check something on the main saw.”
Dale sighed, grabbing the walkie. He looked between Crew and me, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “You two can handle the final measurements, right?”
“Dale—” I started, but he was already walking away.
And then I was alone with Crew.
Again.
The silence stretched between us, thick with tension. Thick with want. I could feel it pressing against my skin. I moved to get a better angle on the paneling, trying to focus on the work instead of on how good Crew smelled or how badly I wanted to touch him.
But the floor near the workbench was cluttered with wood scraps and tools, and my boot caught on something.
I stumbled forward with a gasp, already bracing for impact.
Strong hands caught me—one arm banding around my waist, the other gripping my elbow—pulling me upright and against a wall of solid muscle.
Again.
Except this time, I wasn’t pressed against his side. This time, I was flush against his chest, his arm locked around my waist, my hands splayed against his flannel shirt. I could feel the rapid thud of his heart under my palms, matching the frantic beat of my own.
“You okay?” His voice was strained.
I tilted my head back to look up at him and almost forgot how to breathe. We were so close I could see the silver threading through his beard and feel the faint whisper of his breath on my lips.
“Yeah,” I managed. “I’m okay.”
But neither of us moved. His arm stayed locked around my waist, his other hand still cupping my elbow.
“You need to stop doing that.” His voice was almost guttural and the depth made something inside me start to unfurl.
“Doing what? Tripping?”
“Making me catch you.” His thumb traced a slow circle on my waist through my shirt. The touch burned, sending sparks racing through my nervous system, making me throb. “Because one of these times, I’m not going to want to let go.”
Heat flooded through me at his words, at the dark promise in his eyes. My nipples tightened painfully, my core clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. “You can let me go now,” I whispered, even as everything in me was screaming for him to hold on tighter.
His jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to my mouth. I watched his control fracture. “Maybe I can’t.”
And then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was dark and deep and hungry—like he’d been holding back for days and finally snapped. His hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me harder against him as his mouth moved over mine with a desperation that stole my breath. His tongue demanded entry, and I gave it, opening for him, letting him taste and claim and consume. His tongue slid against mine in a way that made my knees go weak. God, he tasted good. And his beard scratched deliciously against my skin, rough and perfect and exactly what I’d been fantasizing about.
He groaned—a deep, primal sound—and walked me backward until my back hit the wall. Then his body was pressed fully against mine, all hard muscle and solid strength, and I could feel every inch of him.
