Page 66 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

He knew he should carry her home, make love to her properly in that soft bed of hers. But he wanted a few more minutes under this sky with her hands on him exactly like this—like she couldn't get enough.

She must have felt the same because she pulled back, looked down at him and, without a word, lifted her arms in invitation.

Boone RSVPed in no time flat, easing his thumbs under the hem of her tank and slowly pushing it up. The higher he tugged, the harder he became—until his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts, and he stopped.

"Is this where you want to see what color my lace is?" she teased, eyes half-lidded, the slightest daze in her gaze. "Because I promise you—one more inch and you'll know."

"But then the anticipation dies," he murmured, voice rough.

"It will, won't it?" A sexy laugh bubbled out of her and, before he could blink, she yanked the top over her head and tossed it onto the grass.

Boone's breath stopped because no amount of imagining could have prepared him for this. Tiny waist. Flat stomach. Perfect breasts, bare, unadorned, and completely his. He'd noted every detail of her he could get away with for weeks—the way she moved, the curve of her when she bent over the table, the flush that crept up her throat when he got too close. None of it had come close to this.

"Still wondering?" she whispered.

"Just memorizing," he said—his hands moving slowly, tracing the band of her jeans, sliding over her hips and cupping her. He took his time. He'd been waiting long enough that he wasn't going to rush any part of it.

His voice dropped. "I've been thinking about this since the barn."

She leaned back on her hands and gave him a view he was going to carry for a long time. "Isn't the real thing better than wondering?"

"You tell me," he rasped, peeling her jeans down in one fluid move before lifting her onto his lap. He took one breast into his mouth, then the other, taking his time there too—lips, tongue, teeth, just enough to make her shiver—just enough to make her want more before he gave it.

Her moan was a spark. He followed it down—trailing kisses along her ribs, the soft inside of her thighs, laying her back until he pressed one slow, intentional kiss right through the fabric of her jeans.

"Not as much heat as I'd hoped," she challenged, arching into him.

He lifted his head and looked at her. "Hold on to something."

With practiced fingers, he tugged her G-string to the side and then he gave her fire.

He teased, coaxing until her breathing came in short gasps and her body hummed beneath him like a live wire. He pressed her legs wider, pulled the fabric all the way to the side, and slid one finger in, meeting sweet, slick heat. Her whole body tensed as he slid in another, loving the way she fisted her hands in his hair and held him there like she was afraid he'd stop.

He had no intention of stopping.

He started moving and her hips pressed forward to deepen the friction. The way she closed around him when he went deeper was enough to make a man lose his mind entirely.

"Hot enough?" he rasped against her.

"Hotter," she gasped.

He curled his fingers and found the exact spot what he was looking for and pressed into it. She arched her back and let her head fall back, so he did it again. And again. Until the heat rose past the surface of the sun and rounded into something that had no business existing outside of a fever dream.

He lapped and licked, his fingers still pumping.

"Your peach is incredible," he groaned against her.

"My peach is about to come apart."

That was all he needed. One well-placed graze of his teeth against her swollen, slick flesh and she shattered—thighs clamping around him, her whole body shuddering in one long, perfect wave while he worked her through every last second of it.

She was still in an orgasmic-bliss when he unzipped and—because this was apparently a just-in-case moment he was deeply grateful for—he covered himself with a condom. Her legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, pulling him in, and Boone slid home in one urgent stroke.

Vivi gasped—high and breathless—and he went still. Didn't move or pull back, he just held her, pressed close, and let himself have the moment he'd been quietly building toward for weeks. Her body was everything he'd imagined, but none of the imagining had prepared him for how completely, unreasonably right it felt.

When she shifted her hips against him—tightening—his hands followed the curve of her back, gripping and mapping, learning her body the way he'd been wanting to since the first moment he’d spoken to her at the coffee shop. She swiveled and rocked like she'd been built to take him apart, her breath hitching, her chest rising against his.

The world narrowed. Heat, friction, the sharp perfect edge of want. She lifted, clenched, pushed up to take him deeper—and Boone knew he was done for.