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I make a flustered sound, pushing lightly at his chest.
“Hey,” I protest. “People are watching.”
That just makes the smirk cut across Holt’s face like a sword. He leans down, smothering me in his warmth, raking his scruff against my cheek.
“What, you embarrassed to be seen with me now?” he teases, and I grumble.
“Little bit.”
“You should be. I’m about to get real damn embarrassing, honey.”
That’s the only warning before he covers my mouth with his, silencing my protest.
Nah—more like I lose the will to protest at all.
The second his lips touch mine, I start to go off, all adrenaline and heat, gasping as he parts my lips with a firmness that isn’t one bit shy about stealing into me.
He kisses the way most men fuck.
Slow and hard and deep and urgent.
The way his tongue glides in and out of my mouth makes me remember him with every single sense—how he smells when we’re sweaty and tangled together, the way his beard rakes against my skin as he licks all over me, the clever circles rough fingers work against my flesh, the taste of his salty skin when I bite his shoulder, the way his eyes gleam in the darkness with heat, need, urgency, the sound of the bed creaking as he surges into me hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall.
God.
Holt Silverton makes me relive all that and more with just the plunge of a deep, needy tongue and his hands on my back, reminding me I’m so flipping his.
By the time he lets my lips go, there’s one more hard thing pressed between us.
Sweet Lord.
If it wasn’t for Felicity and Blake, we’d barely get out of sight before I mounted him right there in my truck.
He does the worst things to me.
I just hope I’m not letting my body override my heart, when his touch gets me so deep for reasons I don’t want to name just yet.
But I feel like the gasps he pulls out of me are speaking those things to the stars above, anyway.
Making it true.
Finally, I can breathe again, our lips parting as I look up at him.
For a hot second, all I can see is Holt against the backdrop of the stars, the sinful beauty of a fallen angel, forbidden and entrancing, his mouth still wet from our bomb as hell kiss.
I gotta talk to him. After tonight. Tell him how I feel.
With a shaky smile, I press my fingers to his lips.
“Save some for later,” I tease, then pull away, my knees weak. “See you back home.”
“Sure, babe,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on me, watching me so close, like a tether stretching between us as I step toward my truck. “See you real soon.”
* * *
It’s not a long drive to Felicity’s place.
She lives in one of the town’s inner suburbs—well, really the only inner suburb. Even with all the growth lately Heart’s Edge isn’t much bigger than a postage stamp.
Her little cottage-style house looks clear when we pull up outside. Doesn’t look like the door’s been forced, no windows broken, yard is neat and clean.
I still wait in my truck, headlights flooding her porch, until she unlocks the door and peeks inside.
When she waves back a minute later after a walk-through, giving me the go-ahead thumbs up, I wave, then back out of the drive.
She’ll be okay.
She’s surrounded by good neighbors, and she’s a tough, smart cookie.
She can take care of herself.
But I can’t help but worry over her anyway, playing through wild theories in my head as I head home.
It’s a long, lonely drive.
I remember taking this route with Dad so many times back when I was practicing for my license, or even when I was younger, falling asleep in the seat next to him and hanging on his arm while he drove.
He’d play soft music on the radio, low so it wouldn’t wake me up.
That man was a total sucker for Patsy Cline.
I guess it’s nostalgia that makes me turn the radio on, searching through stations, looking for some oldies. I don’t really expect to find any Patsy, but I get Billie Holiday, and “What Is This Thing Called Love?”
Good question, Billie.
With mellow jazz playing, I let myself sink into the lulling quiet of the drive, just half watching the stars and half watching the road.
It’d be peaceful as hell.
A great way to clear my head.
If only it wasn’t for the grinding sound of engines and the rumble of siding metal.
It’s that highway noise when you’re passing one of those big eighteen-wheeler rigs. Even though the sides of the freight box in the back are made of solid metal, it booms and shakes in the wind over the rumble of its own speed.
That’s what’s coming up on me in a roar, snapping me out of my daze.
