“What do you want?” I whisper.
He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. “I want to take you out to my truck.”
I draw back just enough to see the intent behind his words. His eyes are dark but patient. Waiting.
And I want to say yes.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Take me.”
He doesn’t hesitate, weaving us through the crowd, our fingers threaded together.
We pass the table where our group had been. It’s mostly empty now—just Landon still flirting with the brunette, his dimples on full display, and some guy I vaguely recognize from the bunkhouse.
Lane leans toward Landon, hand brushing the small of my back as he raises his voice just enough to be heard over the music.
“We’re gonna get some air.”
Landon glances up, eyes bouncing between me and Lane, smirking before turning back to the brunette. Lane flashes him a grin and gently tugs me toward the door.
The night air hits cooler than I expect—a sharp contrast to the heat still vibrating between us. He guides me across the gravel lot toward his truck.
He opens the passenger door and I climb in, my heart hammering against my ribs. I watch him round the hood, the faint light from the bar catching on the edge of his jaw before he slides into the driver’s seat.
Everything feels quieter out here. The muffled bass from the bar fades into the background, replaced by the soft, synchronized rhythm of our breathing.
He turns the key, and “The Summoning” slips through the speakers—low, steady, and unexpected.
I shift in my seat—not from nerves exactly. I want to be here with him, I just don’t know where to begin. My gaze flicks from him to the radio.
“I thought cowboys were only allowed to listen to country,” I tease softly.
His eyes sweep over me, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t tell anyone. Might ruin my image.”
My pulse skips.
Before I can overthink it—before that little voice in my head warns me to stop—I lean across the center console and press my lips to his.
He responds instantly, his hand sliding up to my jaw, pulling me closer. His lips are softer than I imagined. His tongue brushes mine and I tilt my head, granting him more access. He takes it—hungry, eager, and impossibly good.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the charged silence.
“Is this okay?” he whispers.
I nod, my lips grazing his, and he kisses me again.
Every brush of his mouth sends heat spiraling through me. He’s all rough hands and sharp edges, but his kiss is the opposite, slow and unhurried.
“I want more,” I murmur against his lips.
His hands slide down my sides, firm but careful, guiding me over the console until I’m straddling him. He pauses, searching my face for an answer he already knows. I give it to him with a kiss—but not on his mouth. My lips find the line of his throat, tasting salt and skin and something that feels dangerous and reckless in the best way.
His hands glide up my back and thread through my hair. When I shift against him, a low sound breaks from his chest, sending a shiver straight through me.
My fingers find the top of his jeans, fumbling at the button, but he catches my wrist before I can go further.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, breath ragged. “That isn’t why I brought you out here.”
“I know.” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “I just don’t want to stop.”
