Page 37 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

I caught his scent, that drugstore cologne, and vowed to find a bottle and soak my pillow with it, like some young thing enchanted with a new suitor.

He kissed me again. His hands went around my waist, and I felt bold and mirrored the gesture. Felt taut muscle as I circled my arms around him and pulled him close so he’d know that yes, it was really okay. Really, really, really. Another kiss. A flick of his tongue along my mouth, tasting of salt. Of warmth.

When he drew away, I nearly shivered, except then he cupped my face in those strong, calloused hands and I was warm again. Warmed right through my whole body. To my soul.

“You’re as pretty as a sunrise,” he said, warm and low. “When I’d long stopped looking at ’em.”

Everything stopped in a wonderful, dizzy-making way. I’d never heard anyone say that to me, or anything like it.

I pulled my head back to look at him, to focus. He meant what he’d said. Every word.

My eyes were hot. Stinging. I closed them tightly. I wanted to take this feeling with me everywhere I went, every day of my life.

“Hey,” he said. His thumb stroked my cheek. Looking for freckles that weren’t there, maybe. Tracing for sparks of the tears I was holding back. “Hey,” he repeated. “Could you look at me? Open your eyes for me?”

He stepped close, as if he meant to balance us both, one hand going around me, the other lifting my chin. He was strong and hard all over. Pure muscle. I opened my eyes and could see the want in his.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Is this okay?”

I nodded and reached up. It was like climbing a mountain to circle my arms behind his neck.

He bent close, and he wound his arms around my waist and pulled me to him, urgent, hard, like he meant to meld us together.

And this kiss. It was more than lips, than mouths meeting. It was his breath mingling with mine. It was his heart thumping so hard in his chest I could feel it in mine. It was the scent of him. The tremor in his hand as he swept my hair from my face, oh so gently.

He drew back, his breath hitching in his throat. “It’s raining,” he said. His eyes were bright. Like stars. Green-and-gold stars.

“Do we care?” The question came out a bit more flippant than I would have liked.

“We should go,” he said. Maybe a little desperate. Maybe he wanted to go, when I very much wanted to stay.

“No,” I said. “We should not.”

I clutched at his hard-edged belt and bent my knees, because I was about to kneel down, unbutton his blue jeans, and take him in my mouth. In that grove of cottonwood trees, with the rain pattering down on the gravel. On the leaves. With the bats as witness. To express what my words could not.

But he stopped me. Held me close, very close. I could feel the hardness in his groin, as surely he could feel mine.

“No,” he said. But before I could be shocked by his refusal, the heat shimmering in my veins, he added softly, “Not in the dirt. Not you.”

“Not you, either, then,” I said stoutly.

He worked with his hands and his body all day. There was dirt beneath his feet, dust from cattle, sweat from horses. Dust from hay. It was everywhere in his life, all around him, and yet for me, that dirt was not good enough. The fairy tale surrounded me all the more, my heart a tad stunned to be so well looked after.

“I mean it,” he said. The hand around my waist snaked forward. His fingers circled my wrist. “Not in the dirt.”

With some ease, considering how strong he was, I twisted in his grasp. Then, one-handed—no mean feat—I undid his belt buckle. The buttons on his jeans. And, curved into the bulwark of his body, I slid my hand down his belly, tracing the trail of hair with my fingers, moving beneath the waistband of his briefs.

His eyes went wide. With surprise. Or shock. His body went still.

Wait. Did fairy-tale encounters not involve more than kissing, touching of chins, fingers through hair? Had I messed up royally?

Did he want me to be more passive? To wait for a vine-shrouded bower bed to appear?

I would if he wanted it.

I liked to have a good time in bed. I was good in bed, or at least I used to be. Now I wanted to crawl away, kick myself in the shins for possibly rushing a good man into more than he wanted.

“I can stop,” I said.