Page 129 of Reckless Hearts

I reach for the picnic basket, peeling back the damp towel covering the food. “A little smushed, but yeah.” I lift out the container and a can of whipped cream.

Colt lets out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Thank God. I was about to think this day couldn’t be saved.”

I plop down between them and pop the lid. The strawberries are definitely bruised, but still red and sweet-smelling. I hand one to each of them, then grab the whipped cream.

Colt leans in, his eyes dark with mischief, but there’s a low hum beneath it now, something heavier. “You gonna make it fancy?”

I arch a brow, pulse fluttering. “You want me to serve you?”

He grins, slow and lazy, like he already knows the answer. “I mean… you could just put it straight in my mouth.”

My heart skips. I cover it with a smirk, but my fingers tighten on the can. I swirl the whipped cream onto a berry, slower than necessary, watching his gaze follow every movement like he’s starving.

“Open up, cowboy.”

He does. No hesitation.

I lift it to his mouth. Colt leans in, lips parting, and wraps them around both the berry and my fingers, sucking them into his mouth with a slow, deliberate pull.

The heat is instant, spreading between my thighs, dampening my panties. I feel the wet flick of his tongue, the soft scrape of teeth. It’s too much and nowhere near enough.

My fingers slip free with a soft pop, and his eyes fall shut as he bites down on the berry. “Hmmm,” he hums, voice gravel-thick. “Tastes good.”

A shiver runs through me, goosebumps erupting along my skin as Colt’s tongue catches a drop of cream at the corner of his mouth and licks it clean, slow and unhurried, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

Across from us, Maverick hasn’t moved.

He’s watching every breath, every shift. His posture is rigid, jaw tight, like he’s barely holding himself together. His eyes are hooded, unreadable, but the way he looks at us is anything but calm.

I reach for another berry.

He stops me.

His hand circles my wrist gently, but firm enough that I freeze. My pulse spikes as his fingers slide down to my palm, guiding it toward him with deliberate care.

His gaze holds mine. Dark. Hungry. Pupils blown wide.

Then, softly, almost reverently, he brushes his lips across the tips of my fingers.

There’s a pause. A breath suspended in time. The current arcs between us, wrapping around my ribs, my spine, winding me so tight I could break open.

Then he leans forward, and his tongue flicks out, swirling over the tips of my fingers, catching the sticky sheen ofstrawberry juice. But it’s more than that. His mouth lingers. His eyes stay locked on mine.

And it hits me. He’s licking Colt too.

The berry. The whipped cream. My skin. His tongue. Colt. It’s all connected.

The thought shatters me. Delicious and dangerous.

A full-body flush blooms through me like wildfire, liquid heat coiling low, spreading out until my skin feels too tight, too sensitive.

Outside, the rain picks up, hammering the roof like it’s got something to say. Thunder cracks again, loud and deep, but it barely registers.

Because inside this shelter, the world has shrunk.

Just us.

Just touch. Just taste. Just the heat of those ravenous gazes.

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