One second, he was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and his gaze set somewhere past her ear, and the next, he was two steps forward with his hand at her jaw and his other hand at her hip, and she was walking backward until the porch rail caught her.
His mouth came down on hers and the world went white at the edges.
She made a sound against him—half gasp, half something she’d be embarrassed about later—and her hands were in his shirt before she’d consciously decided to put them there, fisting the fabric on either side of his ribs. He was warm. He was everywhere. His beard scraped her chin and she didn’t care.
She wanted more of it.
Wanted him rougher.
Wanted him to stop being so goddamn careful for once in his life.
His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, holding her exactly where he wanted her. The other hand stayed at her hip, then dropped lower to her ass. He lifted her one-handed, holding her up like she weighed nothing while he continued to kiss her senseless. She wrapped her legs around his waist, anchoring herself against him as he pressed her back against the porch rail. The wood creaked but held. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her whole body flush with heat.
Oh… God. She was going to burst into flames. She was going to die of spontaneous combustion right here on his porch, and it would be worth it.
She slid her hands up his chest, under his shirt, desperate to feel skin. The muscles of his abdomen contracted under her touch, and he groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her chest. She wanted to tear his shirt off, wanted to feel all that ink and muscle against her bare skin, wanted?—
“Inside,” she managed. “We should?—”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his breath came in ragged bursts against her lips. For a moment, she thought he might actually carry her through the door and up the stairs.
Then something shifted behind his eyes. He went still—completely, utterly still—and his gaze moved past her shoulder.
She turned.
Joy Roberts’ silhouette was visible behind the glass of her kitchen window. The nosy bitch wasn’t even pretending not to watch.
She turned back.
Bear’s face had closed down, the heat in his eyes cooling to ice. He carefully set her back on her feet and took a step back, leaving her cold and off-balance.
She wanted to throw something at Joy’s window just for the satisfaction of watching the woman flinch. “Fuck that woman.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “She’s not the one I want to fuck.”
“Then why are you stopping?”
“Logan will be home soon.”
Reality crashed back in. The kiss. The porch. Joy Roberts watching from across the street. His fifteen-year-old son who’d lost his mother, who didn’t need to come home and find his dad making out with the neighbor.
“Shit,” she whispered.
Bear stepped back another foot, putting distance between them that felt like a physical wall. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand. “Don’t you dare apologize for that.”
His jaw worked, but he stayed silent.
She straightened her shirt, aware of how flushed her face must be, how swollen her lips. “I live across the street, Bear. I’m going to keep living across the street.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not going to pretend that—” She stopped. Breathed. Started again at a different angle. “I know what you’re doing. I know why. I’m not saying you’re wrong.” She looked at him until he met her eyes, which took a second. “I’m saying you’re allowed to want something. Even right now. Even with everything else going on.”
He didn’t answer.
“Okay,” she said when it was clear he wasn’t going to give her anything else. She stepped back, one hand finding the porch railfor balance. Her legs were still shaky, and the porch boards were cool under her boots. “I’m going home now.”
