Page 90 of One Wild Chance

Instead, I take every ounce of frustration I’ve been carrying around for weeks and put it directly into this kiss. My hands find his chest, his shoulders, the back of his neck, not pushing him away exactly, but pulling him toward me. A low moan escapes him as I tug him closer.

He’s still built like a hockey player. I am extremely aware of this as I feel every ridge of muscle under his shirt. But he looks like a cowboy now. Tousled hair, rough stubble, cowboy boots. No one can fill out a pair of jeans quite like Jaxon Chance.

His hands thread into my hair as his lips find mine again and again, until I cannot remember what we were arguing about. When he nips, I nip back. When he deepens, I angle in more. He’s such a good kisser, it makes me mad. And that only makes me kiss him harder, which I recognize is not a rational response, but here we are.

Even our first kiss is a competition.

He responds by walking me backward until my hips hit the counter, and then there’s nowhere left to go, but I’ve completely stopped wanting to go anywhere, anyway. My hands slide across his shoulders and I angle up into him, using the counter as leverage, kissing him with enough behind it that our teeth bump and we both almost laugh, and then pick up right where we left off.

We’re like two people who haven’t been kissed in decades, making up for lost time.

Good. I want him as unsteady on his feet as I am.

“Do you give up yet?” he murmurs against my mouth.

“Never,” I return and he kisses me again like that’s the answer he wanted all along.

The man is hungry to win. But anymore, I’m not sure if I want to beat him at his own game or keep playing as long as he’ll let me.

When I finally pull back, I’m breathing like I just sprinted across town again. “Are you surrendering?”

“Depends.” His hands still bracket my hips firmly. “On if you’re going to let me kiss you again.”

“You are impossible,” I huff, right before crashing into his mouth again, angling my chin to go deeper.

“So are you,” he says roughly between kisses. “That’s why I can’t stop kissing you.” His lips trail across my jawline. Then he hoists me onto the counter, so we’re more evenly matched now.

As my fingers thread through his hair, I tug his mouth toward mine, murmuring against his lips, “I thought you kissed me to shut me up.”

“No,” he says, pulling back and holding my gaze. “I kissed you because I couldn’t stand not kissing you. Because when you fight with me like that—” His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. “It’s all I can think about doing.” Then his mouth slants over mine, taking in my lips and leaving me dizzy with want.

I hate that I know exactly what he means. Every argument, every time he’s looked at me across the barn like I’m the most aggravating person he’s ever met, I’ve felt the same tug underneath it.

This is what Larissa meant by a hate kiss.

I pull back suddenly, disoriented, like the counter just shifted. He’s looking at me like the heat inside him is going to burn us both alive.

I swallow. “You win.”

His brows rise. “What?”

“The argument.” I nod toward the dishes in the sink.

“Look at that.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “We’re making progress.”

He kisses my lips one last time, then lifts me off the counter, my body pressed against his.

“Never said I wouldn’t enjoy watching a man work,” I say.

He gives me a smirk. “Is that your excuse for checking out my butt in these jeans?”

I back away, grinning the entire time. “Guess you’ll never know.”

Somewhere between the dishes and the drive home, the reality of what I’ve done settles in. I kissed Jaxon Chance. Not just kissed. I basically pounced on him like a feral animal.

But what does this mean for tomorrow, when we’re back to work? How am I going to face the man who just kissed me so hard my lips are raw?

I don’t have an answer now, and what’s worse, I’m not sure I’ll have one tomorrow either.