“I want you to besure.”
“I am sure.”
“Say it again.”
“I’mverysure, Sullivan.”
He bendsandkisses me slowly. His hand slides under the hem of the daffodil sweater, up my side, his palm a hot, careful weight on my skin. Myentirebody archesbeforeI’vemade a conscious decision to do so.
“Sullivan.” It comes out as a whisper.
“I’m here.”
“I want—”My breath catches.“I want you to know something.Mymother saidthe sensible thingto do was to sell the cabin. So,I want you to know that this is the second time in my lifeI’mdoing theunsensible thing, and the first one was getting in the truck.”
He goes very still above me, looking at me like I’m something he plans to keep. “Tess, you’re?—”
“Yeah.” I bite my lip, waiting to see what he does.
He kisses me.
The time for negotiation is over.
He takes the daffodil sweater off me as ifhe’sunwrappingsomethinghe’safraidhe’llbreak. Then he pulls his flannel over his head, takinghis t-shirt with it.I inhalesharplyat the sight of him bare to the waist—the chest of a manwho’sdonephysical labor all his life, scarred in placesI’llcount later, stomachridged with muscles, atattooover his ribs witha small line of names.
When he notices my gaze catch on it, he covers it gently with his hand. “Later.”
I cup his face, smoothing my thumb over his cheek.“Okay.”
We’reslow on the couchasour clothes come off, one item at a time. Helearnsme the way helearns everything;attention top to bottom,curve to curve, watching my face for what I do and don’t like. His big hand spans my ribs, then slides up to cup my breast. I gasp ashis thumb dragsacross my nipple, and he watches that gasp as if he is filing itaway for later. His mouth follows his hand, hot andunhurried,his beard rough against the swell of my breast as heswirlshis tongue over my nipple.
Hisother handslidesbetween my thighs and partsme slowly.His fingers find me wet, and he breathes a low, broken sound into my chest.
“Sullivan,”I moan, my hips jerking.
Two fingerspressinto me, slow and deep, his thumb finding theswollen nubthat makes my hips lift off the couch. Heworksme there patiently, histeeth grazing my nipples, his eyes flicking up to my face every few seconds to checkmy response.
He’s unraveling me with every touch, every swirl of his thumb and tongue.
“Sullivan.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
“Look at me, Tess.”
I look at him. He’s above me, propped on one forearm, his other hand still between my thighs. Hair in his eyes,pupils blown, breathing rough. And hisface is more open thanI’veseen itin any waking momentover the lastnine days.
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want you, Sullivan.”
“Tell me.”
