Page 46 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

“Because . . . because you didn’t send them.”

His frame slumped, his broad shoulder leaning into mine. “I’m sorry, Molly.”

“Why didn’t you send them?” Above all else, I wanted to know why he’d chosen to hide those beautiful letters instead of giving them to me somewhere along the way.

“A lot of reasons. I wrote them to you, but they were more for myself, if that makes sense. A way for me to get my thoughts together.”

That made sense, especially given the actual letters. If he’d sent me that first one after our first date, I would have been creeped out. After one date, it was strange to know you wanted to marry someone. Wasn’t it? Though it didn’t feel strange. It felt . . . like us.

His explanation made sense for the proposal letter too. He hadn’t said those words to me the night he’d proposed, but I could see why he’d want to have his thoughts down. Why he’d want to use the letter as a dry run before asking someone to become your wife.

“Are there more?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

He hesitated. “A few. Maybe six or seven. I don’t remember.”

If the person who’d sent the first two planned to continue, then I guess I’d find out eventually. “Do you know who could be sending them?”

“I have my suspicions,” he grumbled.

“Me too.”

We sat quietly for a few moments, his arm pressed against me. The heat from his skin melded with my own, warming me to the core. That heat was the reason we should have stayed on the couch.

“You’d better go,” I whispered.

He nodded but didn’t make a move to stand.

“Finn.”

He looked down at me. “I don’t want to go.”

“You said you’d go in a few minutes.”

“I lied.”

I hated how good those two words felt. “What are we doing?”

Finn raised his other hand and brought it to my face. He cupped my jaw, then slid his palm back until his fingers were threaded through my hair. “Being foolish.”

Our lips collided as we both moved. Me, up into his arms. Him, backward, taking us higher up in the bed.

His tongue swept inside my mouth, exploring. My own twisted and tangled with his, tasting all that was Finn until he broke away to trail hot, wet kisses down my neck.

“I don’t want to go.” His fingers wrapped around the hem of my tee, pulling it up my ribs.

“Don’t go,” I panted, my own fingers reaching for the button on his jeans. The minute it was free, I slid down the zipper. Finn’s erection throbbed inside his boxer briefs.

Before I could slip my hand inside, Finn brought my shirt up and over my head, forcing my arms away. With a flick of his wrist, the blue lace bra I’d put on this morning, the one I knew he’d like, was gone.

Finn sat up enough to strip off his own T-shirt, then smashed our lips together once more.

My nipples peaked against the firm plane of his chest, the dusting of dark red hair tickling them and sending a rush of desire to my core. And I forgot about the many rational reasons we shouldn’t be doing this.

We simply stripped each other bare until Finn rolled me onto my back and settled himself between my thighs. My hips cradled his. My arms wound around his waist, holding us together as he eased inside me.