Page 67 of Well That Happened

I reach for his shirt.

And pull.

He lets me.

And then he kisses me.

His lips are soft but firm. Careful. Like he’s holding back a storm with every inch of him.

I don’t want careful.

I kiss him harder, hands sliding into his shirt, feeling the tight line of muscle underneath. He groans—quiet, low, a sound that vibrates against my mouth and sinks all the way down.

He breaks the kiss, forehead resting against mine, breath hot. “Rilee…”

I pull him closer.

“Lay with me,” I whisper.

He hesitates for half a second, then slips under the covers beside me. His body is all heat and tension, arms still braced like he’s afraid one wrong move will break the spell.

We’re facing each other, just inches apart. My hand rests on his chest, and I can feel the way his heart kicks when I shift closer.

And then I feel it.

The unmistakable press of him against my thigh—hard, straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. My breath hitches.

He starts to move back, but I don’t let him.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, adjusting himself. “Just ignore it.”

Instead of him, I push up onto one elbow, tilt his jaw toward me, and kiss him again.

And again.

And again.

Gone are any feelings of grief or fear or exhaustion.

His hand slides up my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs, thumb brushing under the edge of my shirt.

“I’m trying to be good,” he mutters against my mouth.

“You don’t have to be.”

“Rilee…”

“Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He rolls me gently onto my back, mouth never leaving mine, hands slipping under my shirt and up to cup my breasts—thumbs flicking over my nipples until I moan into his mouth.

He pulls my shirt off, slow and reverent, eyes devouring every inch of me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “So fucking soft.”

He leans down, kisses along my jaw, then my throat, then lower, lips trailing heat all the way down.

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