Page 20 of White Collar Rancher

Even worse, they were leaving her because of what had happened to Maisy.

“It’s just work pressure,” she finally said.

He lifted a blond brow and slid closer. “I don’t think so. You can talk to me, you know. We’ve done a lot of talking.”

Her traitorous body turned closer to him as he faced her. “Because we’re friends.” Bravo. She kept the bitterness out of her voice.

“Friends…talk.”

Her gaze dipped to his mouth. His whiskers weren’t long enough to hide his lips. Would they tickle if she kissed him? “What else do friends do?”

The question evaporated between them, leaving no time for her to be mortified about what she’d said or how he’d interpret it.

“I hope they kiss, because I’ve been dying to do that for a while.”

Her lips parted. His confession obliterated her good sense, and hope exploded like fireworks. He dropped his head and she stretched up to meet him.

Slowly, he pressed his mouth to hers. They were each tense, only their lips touching. Then he groaned, and she clutched his shirt. He wrapped his strong arms around her. To her, he’d always been taller, broader, just big. But as he swamped her, she gladly burrowed into him. His warmth, his strength, his solidness. It was all there for her.

He deepened the kiss, teasing her lips apart with his tongue. She reveled in the soft scratch of his beard and his faintly minty flavor. Letting go of his shirt, she took her time brushing her hands up his hard chest and around his neck.

He didn’t stop. She was making out with Justin Walker in her house. Her teenage self would’ve never believed it.

Stooping, he gripped her ass, lifted, and turned. Her butt hit the counter and she automatically wrapped her legs around his waist. There was no moment of indecision, no wondering if she was doing the right thing or not. They were each succumbing to this…whatever…between them. She thought it’d been only one-sided, but he must’ve felt it, too.

He tipped his head and she met each stroke of his tongue with her own. She clamped her legs tighter, seeking some sort of release for the ache between her legs. He was the remedy.

She had no clue how much time went by. Lost in him, the world faded away. Chalk it up to not having been thoroughly kissed like this in a couple of years, or the mountain of man in front of her, but she was nowhere near done with him. She liked the gentle tickle of his whiskers, the way his hot breath wafted over her cheek as they synchronized their inhales and exhales, and the subtle rocking of his hips, as if the pressure building inside of him was as strong as hers.

Neither one of them seemed to be in any hurry to move further, as if it would shatter the bubble of intimacy around them and allow reality to crash in.

The alarm on the oven blared. She jerked, then instantly regretted her reaction. Would he think she was sitting here with her legs twined around him, ruing what they’d done?

The oven beeped again. The pork chops were thin, but had they made out for fifteen minutes? It had felt like ten seconds.

He stepped back, sucking in his lower lip and then releasing it slowly as his gaze swept her face.

The alarm continued to beep but she didn’t move, and Justin didn’t break out of the ring of her legs.

“That was unexpected,” he said.

“Yes.” She regarded him cautiously. Was he plagued with a case of the we shouldn’t haves?

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple working up and down. Her fingers twitched to stroke the area. Fine whiskers feathered down his neck. Were they as delightful to the senses as the ones on his face?

The beep beep of the alarm was as loud as a bullhorn. She released her legs and he stepped back. To her surprise, he held out a hand to help her slide down to the floor.

She hit the button to stop the timer and grabbed the oven mitts. Each second that ticked by, the air grew heavier. Were regrets weighing it down? How would she react if he got weird?

Was she going to get weird? There was a lot of history between them, but none of it sexual.

She plopped the pan of pork chops on the counter next to the cooling risotto and steeled herself. She faced him.

His arms were crossed and he was eyeing her from under hooded lids. The guarded expression he wore didn’t clarify at all where he stood with what had just happened.

“Hungry?” She had no idea what else to say. The last guy she’d made out with had left her for his career, but he’d stepped out on her long before that. The breakup had been an it’s-not—you-it’s-me-because-I-don’t-want-to-be-tied-to-just-you thing. Not that it still stung or anything.

His look morphed from evaluating to sizzling hot like the pan behind her. He was hungry, but not for food.

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