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I lift my head and sniff. “Smoke…or maybe campfire?”
He nods. “And?”
I bite my lip, concentrating. I don’t miss how his eyes drop to my mouth when I bite. Which makes me want to nibble a little longer.
“One more,” he murmurs, his gaze still on my mouth.
My tongue darts out and I lick my bottom lip. Well, he’s definitely got my mind off the panic attack. I sniff again and swallow. “You. I smell you.”
His gaze lifts to mine and locks on to me like a laser-guided missile. “One thing you can taste.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Taste?”
He nods. “Close your eyes and concentrate.”
My brows furrow, but I comply, pressing my eyelids closed. As soon as I do, I feel his lips on mine. I freeze in shock, but I don’t pull away. Instead, I let my body fully relax into his.
He pulls me closer and then threads his free hand around my neck and into my hair. My heart thumps double-time, but this time it’s with excitement instead of fear. When our tongues tangle, it’s for the briefest of moments before he pulls away and runs a thumb along my bottom lip.
“I think you’re in the clear now,” he says.
I nod. It takes a couple of beats before I'm able to talk.
"How did you learn to do that?” I whisper.
“Livvie used to get panic attacks when she was younger. Every time she had to visit her mom. I got really good at distracting her.”
“You are fantastic at distractions,” I mutter.
He grins. “I will distract you any time you want.”
“Careful, I may take you up on that.”
“Please do.” Ryan flashes me a dimpled grin, then rolls onto his back tucking the arm furthest from me under his head. “Good night, Babs. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Thank you for…distracting me.”
He reaches out and grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers. “My pleasure.”
If he only knew.
Chapter 22
Blitzed
Ryan
I’mupbeforesunrise.To be honest, I didn’t sleep much all night.
I had Carrie freaking Babson sleeping in my tent, and she fell asleep holding my hand.
I didn’t move the rest of the night, for fear she’d let go.
As the atmosphere brightens, I watch our hands slowly come into view.
My massive hand engulfs her small, delicate hand. Thick calloused fingers divide thin, long ones. Soft skin brushes against skin rough from years of manual labor and time around engines and machinery.
Is it too much to hope that she likes me? Or am I some sort of rebound from what sounds like an abusive home life—temporary refuge until she returns to her home in Seattle?
