I turned to look at him. He was staring at the fire, his jaw set, a smudge of sawdust still on his forearm from the workshop. I focused on the sawdust because I couldn't look at his face. It was open. Wide open and holding nothing back. Seeing him like that did something to my chest I wasn't ready for.
I reached out and brushed the sawdust from his arm. I didn't plan it. His skin was warm and the muscle shifted when I touched him, just slightly, like I’d caught him off guard.
He turned his head and looked at me, giving me his full attention. Studying my face like a man who'd made a decision. Then his eyes dropped to my mouth.
He leaned over, eliminating the two feet between us. One hand slid up the back of my neck under my braid and the other settled at my waist. Then he kissed me like a man who had been biding his time and was done waiting. He kissed me like he knew exactly what he was doing, and that was what broke me open.
He hadn't snapped or lost control. He had crossed the line on purpose, kissed me intentionally, holding me with hands that were steady and sure, like he’d been thinking about doing this for a while. I had spent days telling myself if it happened it would be him losing control. It wasn't that at all. It was him choosing.
I made a sound against his mouth that caught both of us off guard.
He pulled back an inch and looked at me. “This, okay?”
“Yes.” I wrapped my hand around the front of his shirt and tugged him back toward me.
The blanket slipped off my shoulders. He noticed before I did and pulled it back up with one hand without breaking the kiss. His mouth moved from mine to my jaw to the soft place under my ear.
His breath was warm on my throat, and then his voice came out in a low and rough whisper against my ear.“Mine.”
He didn't seem to know he'd said it. His hand slid from my waist to my hip and stayed there, patient, until I put my own hand over his and moved it exactly where I wanted it. Everywhere he touched felt like it had been waiting for him.
He laid me back on the tarp and braced above me on one elbow, the firelight catching the side of his face, his other hand sliding up under the hem of my shirt and stopping at my ribs, waiting for my permission.
I arched into him, giving it without a second thought.
He pushed my shirt up and looked at me the way he'd looked at the table in his workshop. His eyes were dark and intense, and it was the most exposed I'd ever felt with my clothes still on. Then his lips went back to my throat.
“Mine.” The word ghosted against my skin.
The firelight caught the stubble on his jaw, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. His hand was still warm against my ribs, waiting. The weight of his body braced above me, thecareful control in every muscle. This wasn’t a man who lost himself. This was a man who decided.
I slid my fingers into his hair and pulled him down until his mouth met mine again.
He made a sound, low and rough like he’d been holding back. His hand moved higher, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast, still waiting. I arched into the touch, and that was all the answer he needed. His palm cupped me, his thumb finding the peak of my nipple through the lace, and the sensation shot straight to my core. I gasped against his mouth.
Treyton pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, focused, like he was memorizing the way my body responded. “Tell me what you want.”
I didn’t hesitate. “You. Like this. Don’t stop.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened. Then his mouth was on mine again, taking me deeper, his tongue slow and deliberate, like he was tasting me for the first time and wanted to get it right. His hand slid under my back, unclasping my bra with one efficient movement.
My bra came loose, and he pulled it free, tossing it aside without breaking the kiss. His palm skimmed over my breast, his calluses rough against my skin, and I moaned because it felt so damn good, and because I’d been waiting for this since the first time I saw him scowling at a glacier lily like it had personally offended him.
I pushed his shirt up, my hands finding the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscle, the scar above his hipbone. He let me explore for a second before he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head, his mouth trailing down my throat, my collarbone, the slope of my breast. When his lips closed around my nipple, I arched off the tarp.
He lifted his head just enough to watch my reaction, his breath hot against my skin. “Okay?”
“More than okay.” I tugged my hands free and reached for his belt. “I want to see you.”
He stilled. For a second, I thought he’d stop me. Then he sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt over his head, his movements slow and deliberate. The firelight caught the lines of his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted as he unbuckled his belt, his eyes never leaving mine.
I sat up and pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “You’re overthinking.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” I slid my hand down, my fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans. “You’ve been thinking about this since the workshop. Since the meadow. Since the first time I talked to a flower, and you decided I was trouble.”
His hand closed over mine, stilling it. “I decided you were trouble the second I saw you lying in the gravel.”
