Page 35 of More Than My Hometown

10

EWAN

I inhale as deeply as my lungs will let me, then try and push it a little more, still holding on to Maisey for all that she’s worth. Which is my entire life—and then some. I need to get my wits about me—and calm my raging dick—because the last thing I need before leading a hundred seventh graders into the woods for three days is a raging hard-on.

Maisey seems to have other ideas though.

Wiggling in my arms, she rubs her perfect self right up against that hard-on. Fuck me. She is not fighting fair. At this rate, I’m going to be hard for this entire fucking trip.

I let out a groan, my eyes fluttering shut, saying a little prayer that there aren’t a hundred plus sets of eyeballs on us.

“Are you trying to kill me?” I yank her into me, thrusting my hips forward, making sure she feels that bulge and just what she’s doing to me. “Because you do know that I have to go help teach kids about the joys of nature.”

She giggles, sending another zing down my spine. Seriously, she fights dirty without even trying. So unfair.

“I was just making sure you had a reason to come home on Saturday is all.”

The comment is light, flirty, and I can tell it’s meant to elicit a certain reaction. But there’s more to it. There’s something underneath that tone that tells me this wasn’t just some flirty nothing.

Locking my eyes with her, I hold her gaze for a beat, making sure she knows that she has my full and complete attention. That she has all of me. Despite the chaos surging in this parking lot.

“I already had every reason to come home. What would make you think otherwise?”

That pretty shade of pink tinges across her cheeks, Maisey’s eyes flicking away for a second.

“Because you hadn’t kissed me since that night in the rain. Even though you asked me to be yours, you haven’t made another move. So, I wanted to make sure you knew that you can. That you should. Unless you’re rethinking things.”

In true Maisey form, her resolve never falters. Her voice is steady, calm, and even. The brief flicker in her blue eyes gives her away, however. The one you’d never catch unless you knew to look. And after all these years, I know to look.

“I’m not rethinking anything, beautiful,” I reassure her, pressing my lips softly to her forehead. “I will admit to holding back though. Because I’ve been afraid if I kissed you again, I wouldn’t stop. I almost didn’t stop that night. Fuck, even stopping now, when I know we have a massive underage audience, damn near killed me.”

Maisey lets out a single chuckle, her cheeks tingeing an even deeper pink.

“More than anything, I don’t want you to think that I don’t respect you. That this is about something other than being your man, your partner. It was a ketchup pact, not a condom pact.”

Throwing her head back, Maisey lets out a loud roar of laughter. It rolls through her whole body, the infectious sound working its way into me, until I can’t hold it in either. I didn’t mean for it to be that funny.

Sucking in a breath to control herself, she looks up at me. “Ewan, I am not opposed to you respectfully disrespecting me.”

Well then…

Unable to hold back my smirk, the corner of my mouth tilts in response. Because if that’s what my girl wants, then it is game on. Instantly, my pulse kicks up a couple of notches, my brain flooded with all sorts of naughty thoughts—the kinds of things I’ve only fantasized about over the years. Things that now have the potential to be a reality.

“Mais—”

I’m cut off by a scream. A high-pitched, ear-splitting scream. The kind that makes your blood run cold and you feel down deep in your bones, echoing through them as if some kind of weird muscle memory.

That sound is more than enough to cool my ardor, sending the hairs on the back of my neck straight up. It also sends Maisey into high alert.

She’s out of my arms faster than Superman’s speeding bullet, her trauma nurse spidey senses clearly tingling, every alarm bell in her head sounding at full blast. Head whipping around, she zeros in on the source of horror as another scream rings out.

I watch as a group of kids gather round, Maisey sprinting across the lot like she’s trying out for the Olympics. Following as fast as I can—not nearly as quick as her—I fight my way through the group trying to give her enough room to do whatever it is she’s going to need to do.

Then I see who it is.

Little Kendall Farlow, Chet’s daughter, is on the ground wailing, big fat tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutches her arm. My insides tighten, the shrieking toddler an overwhelming sight.

“Hey there,” Maisey coos, kneeling down beside her. “Hi, I’m Maisey. Can you tell me your name?”