Page 118 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Nothing prepares me for this.

For her.

I strip out of my clothes without taking my eyes off her. No performance. No swagger.

Just hunger and something softer underneath it.

Something that feels dangerously close to awe.

She watches me like I’m the miracle.

Like I’m the art.

And that undoes me.

When I climb over her, I don’t rush.

I press my mouth to her slowly—her shoulder first, then the delicate line of her collarbone.

She shivers beneath me, fingers sliding into my hair, holding me there.

“Greyson,” she breathes.

It’s not a plea.

It’s a surrender.

I trace my hands down her sides, memorizing the curve of her waist, the softness of her hips.

She arches into me like she trusts me.

That trust feels heavier than any expectation ever has.

But I can handle it. I won’t—no, I can’t stop now.

I need her.

Desire wells inside me like an insurmountable hunger, and the only thing that’ll quench it is her.

So, I lower my mouth along her body, reverent. Slow.

Listening to every hitch of her breath, every quiet sound she makes.

She reacts to my touch like she’s been waiting for it.

Like her body knows it’s mine already.

No one has ever made me feel like this.

Not just aroused.

Unraveled.

I’m restless for her in a way that feels almost primal. Like something in me has been asleep for years and she just pressed her palm to it and woke it up.

As I trail my mouth down the curve of her body, slow and deliberate, a new feeling creeps in—dark and sharp and possessive.

It startles me.