Page 120 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

About choosing her in the light of day, not just in the dark.

The thought terrifies me. Intoxicates me.

And I don’t pull away.

I press my forehead to her skin, breathing her in, steadying myself in the heat of her body and the softness of her touch.

And somewhere between her whispering my name and the fire crackling low in the hearth?—

I realize I don’t just want her.

I want the risk.

I want the fall.

I want whatever this becomes.

By the time my lips find her center, she is hot, and so fucking wet. I groan as I press my face into her sweet pussy—inhaling her at her core.

“Greyson,” she whimpers, flexing her hips.

“Hold on, Trouble,” I murmur against her skin. “I got you.”

And I mean it in every possible way.

She gasps softly at the nickname, then harder when I draw her closer, when I focus on her fully, when I make her the center of everything.

Her fingers tighten in my hair.

Her legs tremble against my shoulders.

The sounds she makes are raw and unfiltered and absolutely wreck me.

I don’t rush her.

I don’t chase down her release.

I earn it by learning her.

By giving her what she craves.

The way she arches when I graze just right. The way she says my name like it’s both a question and an answer.

“You’re soaked for me, Clara. Did you miss me? Did you miss my touch?” I growl, sliding my fingers through her slick and rubbing circles over her hard little clit.

“Yes, God, yes! I need you so bad,” she moans.

“What do you need? Do you want to come?” I ask, licking inside her, feeling her walls clench around my tongue.

“Please,” she begs, and that’s my undoing.

I shove two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and I flatten my tongue over her clit, groaning at how fucking good she tastes.

“I-I’m coming,” she moans, letting go of all worry and embarrassment.

Her back arches off the bed as her sugar sweet explosion fills my mouth.

Her thighs shake, and I keep on licking.