AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I need to talk to you,” he says.
I smile. “We were talking.”
He arcs an eyebrow. “We were texting. Talking is more fun.”
“You could have picked up the phone and called me.”
He inches closer, so close that I scent his clean sweat. “But your face is nice to look at when I talk to you.” His deep voice vibrates deep in my core. Lord, I’m weak for him.
I swallow, then regaining my confidence, I remind him, “You could just take my picture and add it to your contacts.”
He’s closer now. So close that I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. One of Beau’s hands braces against the tree.
“But then I couldn’t do this.”
With his lips on mine, my hands automatically go to the front of his shirt.
His warm tongue nudges my lips apart, and he tastes like salt and toothpaste. Aw. He brushed before he came over. Why does that make my heart go crazy for him?
ChapterNine
Beau
The touch of Mary’s lips is magic.
I came over here to talk, and instead, we're kissing.
What can I say? I kiss better than I talk. When I open my mouth to speak, I say dumb shit and screw things up.
Her sweet hands fist the front of my shirt, and I’m deliriously devouring her mouth, drinking in her soft gasps, remembering how she rubbed against me.
I want more of that. More of her.
Scratch that: I want all of her. And I want to give her all of me in return. If she’ll have me.
But before this goes any further, we need to talk.
My lips don’t want to pull away from her, but I have to. When I finally find the strength to pause our kissing, her fingers release my shirt, and she looks momentarily lost.
Me too, girl. Me too.
She blinks her long brown lashes at me. “What did you want to talk about?”
I blow out a breath. About us. What you said in your last text…I don’t think you understand my intentions.”
“Your intentions?” Mary repeats this with her eyes darting, taking in my every facial feature.
I nod toward the back door. “Can we talk inside?”
Her eyes grow serious. “Oh. Is this a kitchen table conversation?”
I nod once, and she exhales.
“Good. I’m melting out here.” She grabs my hand and pulls me through the mud room, and I take in my surroundings. The place is entirely her, with the added spice of a teenage boy. The mud room is cluttered with crates overflowing with athletic equipment, baskets of cleats and sneakers, while up high on the wall, someone has painted an Emily Dickinson quote about home.
This makes me smile. I fucking love this woman. I want to scream it; I love her so bad.
I might break one of these Ikea chairs at her small wooden kitchen table. So I better make this quick.
