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But trying to keep hold of those thoughts is like grasping at tendrils of fog. I can’t quite remember why I shouldn’t fall head over heels for this man. I can’t quite remember what it is about dating him that’s a bad idea. Who cares if I just got divorced? Who cares if Kevin had a fit when he saw us together? Who cares if he’s nothing like the soft, responsible, and supposedly loving man I married? Why can’t I enjoy my life too?
I hold his gaze for a beat, two, and neither of us makes a move. That’s when I realize I’m still wrapped up in his arms—and I never want to leave.
As if he realized it at the same moment, the arm that’s banded across my back grows tighter. Mac’s eyes lower, and the hand on my cheek moves to my jaw, sliding back to tangle into my hair.
I let out a little whimper, knowing I shouldn’t want this as badly as I do but desperate for it anyway. I’m starved for his particular brand of affection. Hungry for it. For him.
Mac lowers his head and slants his mouth against mine. His lips brush my own in a tender movement. It’s barely a kiss. More like a question.
And when my lips part and my hands move to his shoulders, he knows the answer.
The kiss that follows is like an unleashing. A dam breaking. It’s feral, the way he grips me, holds me tight, parts my lips and explores my mouth with his tongue. It’s like he’s been dreaming of doing this, just as I have.
We’ve been apart just over twelve hours, and it feels like I haven’t tasted his lips in an age.
Why should I hold back? Why should I take things slow? I can’t remember why I haven’t jumped into his arms daily from the moment I saw him change my tire. How can I ignore the way he sets my body alight? How can I resist when being in his arms feels like an ending and a beginning all wrapped up in one?
“Trina,” he says, nipping at my bottom lip. “I want you.”
“I know.” My hands curl into his hair, tugging lightly. “I do too.”
He groans. “I’ve thought about you every day since you came to the Grove all those weeks ago. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“God, me too,” I sigh, finding his lips again.
He tears himself away, eyes wild as he holds me. “Come to bed with me.”
It’s an invitation, a question, and a command. I know that if I said no, if I pulled away and told him to stop now, he’d listen. I could be the responsible mother. The chaste divorcée. I could focus on me—or whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing with the broken shards of my life.
But I don’t want that.
Haven’t I spent long enough denying myself? Haven’t I spent thirteen years with a man who never cared about my pleasure? Haven’t I tried my best to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother, and all I’ve gotten in return is crushing loneliness and a quick divorce?
Don’t I deserve this? Something impulsive, and hot, and just for me?
Yes, I decide. I deserve it.
And so, I nod. “I want you, Mac. Right now.”
He lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he holds me, then he takes my hand and leads me out of the studio, leaving the shattered vase crunching under our footsteps.
CHAPTER 19
Trina
There’s a distant undercurrent of doing something we shouldn’t when Mac wraps his large hand around mine and leads me to his house. I mean, we just left Four Cups to come pick up a few boxes of pottery. Everyone will notice if we don’t get back. My kids are waiting with my mother. It’s not even noon—not that it matters, but the sunlight makes this all feel more scandalous.
We cross the foyer and the living room, walking with purposeful steps toward a hallway to the left of the kitchen. Mac’s bedroom is dominated by a huge king-sized bed. The pillows are stacked high, the bed neatly made. Closing the door with his foot, Mac tugs me close and kisses me once more.
Outside this room, the world falls away. My entire attention is caught by the way Mac’s hand sweeps down to grip my bottom, the way he groans when he feels me melt into him. There’s no one in the world but the two of us.
Heart’s Cove doesn’t exist. My ex-husband and the mess of our separation definitely don’t exist.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Mac says, voice full of gravel. “Every fucking day.”
The way the words are torn from his throat makes my body go pliant. He slides my cardigan off my shoulders and tosses it aside—and it’s a testament to how far gone I am that I don’t protest his mistreatment of my favorite cashmere sweater.
From there, our clothes are ripped off and discarded. I sweep my hands over his chest, over the rasp of the hair sprinkled over his pecs, and I can’t resist running my lips over his skin. His palm moves up my spine to cup the back of my neck, and I curl my fingers over his shoulders at the feel of it.
