Page 65 of Danger

“Then where?"

He studies me for a long moment, like he's deciding whether to answer. "You don't aim for where he expects."

"Why?"

"Because if he knows what's coming..." A small smile tugs at his mouth. "He quits paying attention."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then you've got him."

“Hmm.”

I take a chance and lean forward, pressing my mouth to the rough edge of his collarbone, where his shirt is open. I smell his aftershave and something distinctly him. He swallows, like it’s out of pure resistance.

"Slower," he rasps.

My teeth graze the same spot, and the muscle under my lips jumps once, hard, like he's already losing this battle. He exhales sharp, almost a hiss. His hand slips off the back of the bench and finds my hip, fingers digging in just enough to tell me this is working.

"Good," he says, quieter now.

My mouth moves higher, tracing up his neck slowly. His pulse thrums against my tongue, faster now. His grip tightens, but he doesn't stop me.

I linger under his ear, breathing him in. His chest rises, falls, rises again, uneven.

"Now he's payin' attention," he breathes.

My lips brush the shell of his ear, and his breath catches. His thumb flexes against my side, probably leaving a mark.

I quit trying to guess the right move and just go with the moment. I lick the curve of his ear, slow. His entire body jerks. His hand slides up my back, just holding on.

"How's that?"

He exhales. "You keep this up and I'm gonna be out of a job."

I grin, but I don't stop. My fingers hook beneath the bottom of his shirt, brushing the warm skin of his stomach. His muscles tighten instantly beneath my touch.

His eyes track my hand, his breathing just a little less steady than before.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I close the distance. Just the lightest brush of my lips against his. A question. An invitation. A mistake. Because the second he breaks, he breaks completely. One hand drags slowly up my spine before closing around the back of my neck. The other drags me closer.

And just like that, whoever he wanted to fight doesn't exist anymore. Whoever they are dies against my lips, swallowed whole by the rough, unhurried press of his mouth. He doesn’t ask. He takes. Andgod, do I let him. His tongue slides againstmine, tasting like whiskey and the best kind of bad decision. His hands are everywhere now, moving from my face to my hips like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

No rush. No question.

And suddenly I’m moving as he guides me until I’m straddling his lap, knees on both sides of him. The bench creaks softly beneath us. He doesn’t break the kiss. Doesn’t even react to how sharply I inhale. Like this was inevitable. Like he knew exactly where I’d end up the moment he decided he was done holding back.

"Fuck, Winnie," he says, voice wrecked. "You feel that? That’s what you do to me."

I do. I feel everything. The thick, aching length of him pressed against my core, the way he shifts to meet my desperate rolls, the way his fingers tighten possessively on my ass, pulling me harder against him. His hat’s knocked off somewhere, those dark curls I love tangling in my fingers as I fist my hands in his hair.

His mouth finds my throat, slow and unhurried, like he’s forgotten the world exists beyond this bench.

“Do you still wanna leave?” I ask, grinding shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. “My time is almost up.”

He takes a deep and filthy breath. “Not a chance.”

“Thought so,” I say, smiling against his ear.