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Will chuckles as he turns to a lower cabinet and takes out a large pot. He fills it with water and moves it over to the stove, turning on the flame.
His glance at me comes with an amused grin. “You’re flushed.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“Not touching that one.”
“What? No witty comeback?”
“You’re not ready for it.”
“Try me,” I dare and instantly regret it or welcome it. Verdict’s out as he turns to me fully, his body angled to mine.
For some reason, the way he’s looking at me—really looking me, as if it were the first time—has my coy smile falling.
“When I was cooking before, I was in a sweatshirt because there’s a draft that creeps under that wall over there. As soon as you walked in, I couldn’t stand being in it. When you walk in a room, the temperature rises. My palms are slick, and my whole damn body feels like an inferno. I swear it’s your eyes. They’re ice blue but with flecks of amber that make them appear alive, like a flame that dances and flickers. Or maybe it’s your candy lips, cherry-stained and beckoning me to lean in and press my lips against them. They make me burn. I want to kiss that mouth because I know how sweet it tastes. It makes me think of how sweet the rest of you will taste.”
His words pierce through my core. I wasn’t prepared for his honesty. It’s heady, and my brain fizzles, as if I drank too much wine yet I only had a sip.
While these words should make me nervous, they do the opposite. They make me feel … euphoric. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted for myself? Isn’t this why I’ve placed myself in this man’s company again and again despite the red flags waving around me, telling me it’s not right?
I never set out to find a man, but I’ve always wanted something more. Something big.
Big love.
I want to laugh and have good conversation over whiskey, to dance in courtyards, and to feel that shiver, that feminine quake that was reawakened in me the moment I met Officer William Bronson in a cold cell, late on a Friday.
There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t be with him. God, there are so many, and yet I cast them aside.
His palm is splayed out on the counter, not too far from my own. Sliding my hand over, I watch as my pinkie gracefully settles next to his, lightly brushing against his skin. It’s the simplest of touches, and yet the mere connection sends shock waves from my heart straight into his eyes, which look at me with burning desire.
His hazel orbs blaze as I move my hand over his slowly—so damn slowly—and I run my hand up his forearm, taking in every corded muscle that appears though his clenched form.
He’s holding himself back, steady and strong, looking at me for intent.
“I won’t kiss you,” he breathes.
My hand continues its journey up his bicep, and I roll it over his shoulder, sliding down his chest. His heart beats faster and faster as I close the gap between us.
We’ve been here before. Body to body, breath upon breath. This is the point of retreat that we’ve done many times before.
My lashes flutter up to his, and what I find leaves me on edge.
The heated smolder of a man in lust. His deep, molten inner sexuality, shooting through his eyes into one undeniably sexy stare. I’ve been hypnotized by this look for months, and while I thought it was his natural look, I realize now that it was always for me.
My hands roam over his body, my eyes seeking permission to pursue. His deep, rapid breaths tell me to proceed.
Like a woman with no sight, I let my hands travel over Will’s torso in order to feel my way. Every ripple and taut muscle, strong yet lean beneath my fingertips. I could splatter my hands with paint and re-create every divot on a canvas. That’s how familiar he feels.
Breathing deeply, he remains standing, astonished by the brazen motions of the woman before him, taking liberties with his body.
It’s not just his body I want.
It’s his mind and his thoughtful stories. His mouth and the words he says to make me smile. The way he smiles when we’re together. It’s his hands and how they carry my burdens. And his heart that welcomes every important piece of mine into his.
I want this man. Mind, body, and soul. It might not be right, but I’ll be damned if anyone tells me it’s wrong.
“Melissa,” he croons as his gaze steadies on my tongue licking my bottom lip. He closes his eyes, and it feels like a curse. “I won’t kiss you, but if you kiss me and then pull back in regret, I won’t be able to recover.”
