Page 22 of Claimed on the Ridge

"Probably." His gaze hasn't left my mouth.

His mug is empty. So is mine. He stands, collects both without asking, and walks toward the kitchen.

The T-shirt pulls across his shoulders as he moves, and the shift of muscle underneath is visible and distracting.

I'm following him into the kitchen before the decision fully forms, which is a problem I'm going to deal with later.

The kitchen is cooler than the main room. The stove flame has burned out, and the only warmth is what drifts through the doorway from the dying fire.

He sets the mugs by the sink and turns, and the turn puts him close. Close enough that for the first time I catch his scent without cold air and distance diluting it. His scent is wood and soap and something warm underneath both that belongs only to his skin.

The response is immediate and involuntary, heat and recognition hitting before thought catches up.

"Kendall."

He says my name low and unhurried, tasting the shape of it, and the sound does something to the base of my spine that runs all the way up.

"Alex."

The motion is slow, giving me every chance to pull away. His fingers close around my wrist, the one I cover when I flinch, andthe touch is warm and careful and exactly where another man's hold would be a threat.

On him, it's a question.

I don't flinch.

The absence of it registers on his face before I've finished processing it myself. His expression shifts, something raw breaking through the composure, the moment he understands that his hand is on the place I protect and I haven't pulled away.

His thumb moves against the inside of my wrist, finding the pulse, and the pad of his thumb is rough and warm against the beat of me.

I turn my wrist into his hold, opening toward him. The motion is small and it says everything my mouth won't.

He steps closer. His hand comes up to my jaw. The touch is firm. His fingers spread along the side of my neck, thumb at my chin, and he tilts my face up toward his.

His breathing has changed. Mine stopped a while ago.

"Tell me no." His voice is barely there. Scraped raw. "Kendall. Tell me no, and I stop."

The words don't come out composed. They come out like a man with his hand on the pin of a grenade asking permission to let go.

I don't tell him no.

His mouth comes down on mine and the kiss is a claim.

His hand slides from my jaw into my hair and his fingers close, strong enough to pull at the roots, gentle enough that I know I could break the hold.

I don't want to break it. I want the fist tighter, and the wanting shocks me. I want his hand closed in my hair so I can feel the strength he's holding back.

A few days ago I couldn't tolerate a man standing between me and a door. Now I want this one pulling harder. Theabsurdity of my own psychology would be funny if I could breathe.

His other hand finds the small of my back. He pulls me against him, and the full length of his body hits mine like a wall of heat.

The size of him registers in a way it hasn't before, his shoulders blocking out the dim light from the doorway, his arm spanning the width of my lower back. I'm not a small woman, but against Alex Sawyer the difference in our bodies is overwhelming.

The containment should set off alarms. It sends heat flooding through me instead.

The T-shirt does nothing to disguise what's underneath, all hard muscle and radiating warmth, and the press of him against my breasts and stomach and hips sends a current straight down through the center of me.

He opens the kiss and takes it deeper, his tongue sliding against mine with a confidence that makes my knees soften.