Page 48 of When Wildflowers Bloom

He drags it down the outer line of my leg, stopping inches above my knee before pulling it across the front, then up the inside of my thigh.

Slowly.

Up.

Up.

Stop.

Less than an inch away from the spot where a pressure is building, he’s still.

My pulse in my ears and the rapid rising and falling of my chest is how I imagine a skydiver reacts before they throw themselves out of an airplane.

“Bo?” I whisper, eyes still closed.

He doesn’t answer, but I hear his breathing. Shallow as mine.

Four heartbeats later, he’s moving again, making the ache between my legs turn almost unbearable as he drags the object across my pubic bone—skimming. A teasing drive-by that makes my thighs flinch. One thought crosses my mind: I would let him do very naughty things to me with whatever it is he’s holding. Without regret.

Then it’s gone, slipping down my other thigh, across my leg, retreating up the hip.

At my belly, he stops. He’s barely touching me yet I’m throbbing. Everywhere. A fiery torch in human form.

The way my body is buzzing, if Bo just put his hands on me—once—I have no doubt I’d melt into some kind of screaming orgasmic puddle on my kitchen floor in the matter of seconds.

Instead…up.

Sternum.

Throat.

Against my will, my head drops back.

He drags it along my jaw, across my lips. The sweetness of it dances up to my nose.A flower.A flower in Bo’s hands has become some erotic magic stick that nearly scorches the clothes right off me.

By the time he finishes, he’s closer to me, heat radiating.

“What do you feel?” His voice comes out like molasses, dripping to every corner of me.

“You.”

When I open my eyes, he’s there. Looking at me. Close. The rising and falling of his chest matches mine. What’s in me is in him; I see it. Feel it.

He sets the flower he’d pulled from a vase down on the counter—a zinnia that I’ll never look at quite the same—not taking his eyes off mine.

We’re inches apart standing in my kitchen, staring at each other in the dark. Half hidden by shadows.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“You,” I whisper. Instant.

He doesn’t move.

“What are we doing, Bo?” I ask, not moving.

He licks his lips. “I don’t know.”

“I might die.”

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