Page 49 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I can see it in his eyes. He wants all of me.

And it’s intoxicating.

The heat of that gaze floods through me, loosening something inside my chest that’s been tight for years.

His hands make short work of his flannel. Buttons pop in a quick, impatient line.

The shirt hits the floor.

And—Holy Christ.

The man is a work of art.

Bearded, yes. Hair too long and wild, yes. But it only makes him sexier.

And his body?

It’s hard and muscled in a way that makes me think of old statues and modern sin.

Broad shoulders. Strong arms.

A chest that looks like it’s been built by labor and solitude and sheer stubbornness.

His hands—God, his hands—that’s what really gets me.

They’re callused, capable, the kind that leave marks on wood and leather and metal.

I want those hands on me.

Not as a fantasy.

Not as a someday.

I want them on me right fucking now.

He shucks his jeans down with a sharp tug, like he’s trying not to think too hard.

Like if he slows down, he’ll stop.

I don’t want him to stop.

I reach for him, palms skimming over his stomach, feeling the heat and the tension, the way his body is braced like he’s holding himself back.

His breath hitches.

His eyes snap to mine.

There’s a question there.

A carefulness that doesn’t match his gruff voice.

I appreciate it more than I can say.

“I’m okay,” I whisper, because he needs to hear it. Because I need to say it. “I want this.”

Greyson’s jaw clenches.

His throat works like he’s swallowing something heavy.