“You must be, Sunny,” I murmured, crouching to scratch behind her ears.
Lilly's voice drifted from somewhere inside: “Yep. That’s my girl.” The dog gave my hand one last nudge before padding down the hallway, as if whatever was about to happen between her owner and me was strictly human business.
A single candle flickered on the rough-hewn table, its flame throwing dancing shadows over Lilly’s bare legs as she lounged on the couch. She lifted a whiskey bottle, that grin of hers pure invitation.
“Whiskey?” she cooed.
“Sure,” I rasped.
She poured a finger’s width into a glass, slid it to me, then tipped her own back in a slow, teasing sip. I knocked half of mine back in one swallow. The burn chased away the last of my nerves.
Lilly leaned into the cushions, her robe slipping open just enough to reveal the curve of her hip and the swell of her breast. “Come here, cowboy.”
I set down the glass, pried the bottle from her hand, and let a bead of amber liquor trickle onto her nipple. She arched, breath hitching, when I bent forward and licked it away—whiskey and warmth mingling in my mouth. I grazed the other one next with the stubble on my cheek before teasing her with my soft tongue.
Her laugh was low and hungry. Fingers tangled in my hair as I hovered between her breasts. “You’ve got a mean streak,” she teased.
“Maybe I like it that way.” I let my mouth trail down her flat stomach until she hauled me up for a bruising kiss.
Her hands dove into my jeans, undoing the button. Then she found it—the little black box. She brandished it with a wicked smile. “Well, planning ahead?”
I laughed, but my chest tightened. “Smart thinking, nothing more.”
“Smart,” she echoed, brushing it over my lips before dropping it on the table. “Good man.”
“Can I leave it in your nightstand?” I asked, voice low. “For next time—and the time after.”
Her eyes softened, but she didn’t push me. She slid her hand into mine and hauled me to my feet. “Good idea. Now grab the candle and follow me to bed,” she said, and that was enough.
The candle flickered as we crossed the room, shadows pooling around the bed. Lilly dropped her robe without hesitation and stood, unashamed, her entire lithe body on display. I set the candle on the nightstand and took my time stripping off my boxer briefs and shirt—preferring the dark to hide the inked shapes on my body that I wasn’t ready to explain.
She guided me down onto the mattress, lips hungry as mine, and helped me slide on the condom. Lilly moved like she was born for this—unfettered, fierce, needing every inch of me.
I thrust into her, hard and steady, matching her rhythm. Her moans echoed off the walls, her nails raking down my spine. I met her body with my own, a relentless pace that blurred the world outside as we satisfied our shared need.
But even as heat and pleasure consumed us, I felt the weight of that box in the nightstand. Proof I was planning for something I swore I didn’t want. Proof that if I stayed, she’d be the one who got hurt.
So, I kissed her harder, buried that thought in the knot of her hair. Lost myself in the fire and the darkness where promises didn’t matter.
When it ended, she collapsed against me—limp, satisfied. She drifted toward sleep with no questions, no demands.
Free-spirited as ever.
I stared up at the ceiling, the candle burned down to a stub, shadows flickering like ghosts across the walls.
I should’ve felt nothing but satisfied—hell, I’d had exactly what I told myself I wanted. Heat without strings. Touch without promises. But the longer she lay curled against me, the heavier the silence pressed in.
The thought slipped in before I could shove it away: I wanted to ask her out. Take her somewhere in daylight, sit across from her at a table where the only thing between us wasn’t shadows and whiskey. For once, I wanted to do it right.
That was what scared me most. Wanting her didn’t mean I had it in me to follow through, though. Every mission I’d ever run had ended the same—get in, get out, leave nothing behind. Clean breaks, no attachments. Except once. And I still carried the fallout from that mistake.
If I kept crossing that ridge, one of us was bound to bleed. Maybe her. Maybe me. Hell, maybe both of us.
She murmured something in her sleep, soft and sweet, and I pressed my face into her hair, breathing in that scent I couldn’t seem to forget.
Perhaps tomorrow night I’d find the guts to say something real.
Chapter Seven
