Page 58 of A Bittersweet Summer

I gather my strength. “But what if I want you to touch me?” The words come out like a whisper, and I watch as a crease forms on his forehead—like he’s straining to hold himself back. “I want the job, and I also want—” My voice shakes when I utter a soft plea, done with useless explanations. “Please, Wes.”

His gaze hops from one eye to the next and then to my mouth, a longing there that matches the longing now heating my blood. He doesn’t move, just holds himself inches from me. If I leaned in, just slightly, I could taste his lips and drink the confessions from him for myself—no words needed.

“I don’t want professionalism,” I assert. “I want tofeelyou. And I—”

Strong hands bracket either side of my face, his touch gentle but firm. Wes presses his mouth to mine, his soft lips seeking and coaxing. That singular kiss halts the rotation of the galaxies above.

We are frozen, save for the heavy breaths and hungry touches. His lips move against mine until the earth starts spinning again.

He presses forward, and I match his motions until my back presses against the round bale of hay. It’s damp and dirty, and I can hardly bring myself to care. Not when Wes is kissing me like he wants to savor the taste.

Every nip, every slight shift in the way our mouths meet, begs me to melt into his touch.

He steps closer, his strong body locking me in place.

It’s not enough. I fist my hands in his rain-soaked shirt and drag him closer. Fire fills my core as he groans, my sharp desire unbearable.

It’s the kind of kiss poets write about.

He grabs my hips, his movements turning urgent and hungry—sloppy as he pulls me toward him. I can feel him everywhere—in my lungs, my head, solid and hard against me.

His tongue requests access, one hand sliding down to my thigh as he hitches my leg around his hip. I let him, a deep groan vibrating through his chest when our tongues meet.

He presses forward, and I can feel him, hard and wanting, as I shift my hips to get friction.

“This is okay?” he whispers against my mouth.

More than okay,I want to answer.Keep going, I long to beg.

Instead, I just nod my encouragement as Wes’s searing touch slides back up to my torso, his hand slipping beneath my shirt until I feel flesh on flesh. Fire blazes across my skin as his callused hand scrapes higher, exploring until his fingers brush just beneath my breast.

I pull back, my head falling back against the wet hay behind me. “I want you,” I plead, watching his dark eyes swallow what remains of the gray afternoon light.

I take the moment to look at him—really look. The t-shirt clings to every ridge of his chest and abs. My gaze dips lower to where he’s still pressed against me.

When I look up, held captive by the hunger in his gaze, Wes nods, and a zap of electricity shoots through me at the thought of more.

A rumbling engine sounds from the trail. Walton drives out into the edge of the field as Wes and I break apart, heat migrating to my face as embarrassment takes the front seat.

“You kids okay?” Walton shouts over the engine.

A flash of lightning streaks overhead, and I look up, listening as thunder follows.

“We’re fine, Walton.” Wes runs a hand down his face, flipping his backward hat forward to shield his eyes.

The old man smiles, crooked teeth on display. “I can see that, now.” His tone is taunting. “Just wanted to make sure you all weren’t lost or stuck in the storm. We brought the little ones in down at the breeding barn,” he informs. “Figured you two would want to get under roof, too.”

Wes nods. “We will head back,” he says, keeping his eyes forward. “Thanks, Walton.”

“I’m not sure you’re actually wanting to thank me right now, Wesley Miller.” Walton hits the gas, circling once until he disappears back into the trees.

Another snap of lightning causes us to look up.

“He’s right.” Wes sighs. “We should get back.”

I nod, my boots sticking into the wet earth as I move toward the golf cart.

Wes hops into the seat beside me, turning the cart to drive back over the trails.