Zane broke the kiss and rested his forehead against mine. “Still sure?”
“Yes.”
“You need to keep saying it.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
His thumb moved along the side of my throat. “I don’t want you quiet.”
A shiver ran through me. “That’s optimistic. I’m rarely quiet.”
His mouth curved, and then he kissed me again.
I wasn’t quiet.
I made a small helpless sound the second his tongue stroked mine, and Zane answered with a deeper one. His hand slid from my waist to my hip, then lower, fingers digging into the curve of my ass through my shorts. I pressed closer before I could pretend not to want it. He felt huge against me, broad chest, strong arms, all that controlled power finally turned toward me.
“Zane,” I said against his mouth.
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
His eyes opened. “Then tell me.”
My face heated. “I want more.”
The words hit him visibly. His grip tightened, then eased as if he caught himself.
“You can have more,” he said. “But I need clear words from you.”
My pulse hammered. “I want more. I want your hands on me. I want you to stop being so careful that I feel like I’m the only one losing my mind.”
Zane went very still.
Then he said, “I’ve been losing my mind since the first day you walked through that gate in those shoes.”
A laugh broke out of me, breathless and shaky. “The shoes?”
“The shoes. The paperwork. The way you looked at me like you were terrified and arguing with yourself about my arms at the same time.”
“I wasn’t arguing.”
“You were.”
“I was making observations.”
His hand slid under the hem of my tank top, palm hot against my waist. “You’re still doing it.”
“Zane.”
“I’ve got you.”
He kissed me again and backed me slowly toward the shore until my calves bumped the warm edge of the dock. His hands stayed at my waist, then moved up my sides, thumbs brushing the lower edge of my bra through the tank.
I trembled.
He felt it.
