Page 78 of Long Shot

His hands move on my body, under my T-shirt over my bare back, down to my hips, my ass, tingles following in the wake of his touch. My heart speeds up and I explore him, too . . . the big muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, the soft skin at his throat in the opening of his shirt, his silky hair long enough to tangle my fingers in. We groan in unison, kissing on and on, until finally he lifts his mouth from mine and leans his forehead against mine. We both breathe rapidly. I stroke the back of his neck.

“I wanted this,” he rasps. “With you.”

“Me, too.”

“But this isn’t what I invited you over here for.”

“Right. Chicken.”’

He chuckles. “Yeah, that. I mean, I didn’t just invite you over here to screw around.”

I meet his eyes. “I know.”

He clears his throat. “Okay, good. Let’s get that chicken out of the oven and eat.”

Disappointment pinches, but I suck in a breath and lift my chin. “Okay.”

He smiles into my eyes. “Later . . . I do want you. I want you in my bed. Under me. I want to bury myself inside you and fuck you.”

My belly flips. I swallow. “Okay.”

We move apart and I tug my shirt down. Jack lies on the floor, nose on his paws but his eyes alert and watching us. I smile. “You feeling neglected, Jack?” I pat my knee and he rises, tail wagging, and pads over. I rub his head.

“He’s a good boy.”

“He is.”

Cade stands and strides over to the kitchen. I follow along, wash my hands at the sink, then help him get our meal together. We eat at the small table, Cade holding my chair for me as I sit, making my heart flutter.

The chicken is perfect, with crisp golden skin and juicy meat.

“This relish is great,” Cade says of my cranberry concoction. “I don’t usually like cranberry sauce, but this is good.”

“You mean cranberry sauce in a can?” I wrinkle my nose.

“Yeah. That’s what we had when I was a kid, every Thanksgiving. A red jelly cylinder.”

I grin. “Yeah, me, too, actually.” I take a bite of the potatoes he made. “This is all good. Thank you.”

We chat as we eat, but the humming sexual tension never quite goes away. It’s fun and exciting and exhilarating, brushing my leg against his under the table, touching his hand when I hand him the pepper grinder, him leaning over to wipe a bit of cranberry off my chin with a fingertip.

We find we have more things in common as we talk, other than our need for control and desire to succeed—simple things like a love of anything pumpkin, deeper things like a need for quiet alone time, a similar outlook on crime and social issues, racism and the environment. We also discover differences, like our views on solving religious conflicts and terrorism, not surprising I suppose, given Cade’s military background. Nonetheless, we’re able to have a spirited, open-minded conversation and share our opinions, and weirdly that makes the tingles flowing through my veins intensify.

Jack sits patiently at our feet.

“He’s good at the table,” Cade comments. “Must have been well trained.”

“I can’t take credit for that. But I’ve been careful not to undo the training by feeding him at the table.”

“Can he have some chicken?”

“Yes. When we’re done.”

We eat the dessert I brought—pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting.

“Fantastic.” Cade swipes up a fingerful of frosting. “This gives me ideas.”

My eyebrows rise. “Really.”

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