Page 41 of Her Dirty Defender

The word hangs between us for one heated heartbeat. Then she tightens her hold on my shirt and yanks me down to her level. The force of it makes me stumble forward, and I catch myself by bracing my other hand on the wall beside her head. Her breath stutters at the sudden cage of my body.

“Last chance to run,” I warn, even though every cell in my body screams to close that final inch between us.

Her response is to arch up, letting me feel the soft curves of her breasts against my chest. “Shut up and kiss me.”

The kiss is explosive. Desperate. Like we've both been drowning and finally found air. Her mouth opens under mine, hot and demanding, and I growl low in my throat.

One hand tangles in her silky hair while the other grips her hip, pulling her closer until no space remains between us.

She tastes like coffee and defiance, sweet and sharp all at once. Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt, and I press her harder against the wall, wanting to feel every inch of her.

When my thigh slides between hers, she makes a sound that shoots straight through me.

Her body instinctively responds, hips tilting to grind against my thigh. The heat of her core burns through our clothes, sending a jolt of desire coursing through me. Her hands clutch my shoulders as if she's holding onto a lifeline.

“Beckett,” she breathes, her voice laced with a mix of need and resistance.

I lean in, my mouth brushing against her ear. “Ride my leg, sweetheart. Chase it. Let go.” My voice is rough and commanding yet gentle. I want her to feel every sensation, to lose herself in the moment.

She shakes her head, stubborn to her core, but her body tells a different story. The rigid line of her spine softens, melting into the wall behind her. Those capable hands that rebuild engines now clutch my shoulders like I'm her only anchor in a storm.

“Beckett,” she breathes again, my name a plea now.

I tighten my grip on her hips, guiding her movements. I know what she needs, even if she doesn't. “I've got you, George. Just let go. Let me give you this.”

Her hips move with more urgency. Tension stretches her muscles, her breathing choppy, her pupils dilating. I hold her tight, my thigh pressed firmly against her, driving her closer to the edge.

“That's it, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low and encouraging. “Feel it. Feel me.”

Her body trembles as her resistance crumbles. Her hips move faster, her head drops back against the wall, and she bites her plump lower lip. I know she’s getting close, but she needs a little more.

Making quick work of the button on her jeans, I slide my hand inside, delving beneath her panties to find her slick heat.

“Oh, God.” George jerks as I slide my finger through her wetness to circle her clit. “Beckett,” she moans, her voice filled with need and surrender.

I circle and press her bundle of nerves, my focus solely on her pleasure. “Let go, George. I've got you. I've always got you.”

And in this stolen moment, with dust motes dancing in the stray beams of sunlight around us, George finally stops fighting herself.

Her body shudders, and she cries out, her orgasm crashing over her. Her shoulders tremble against the rough barn wall, her defenses crumbling like sandcastles at high tide. George doesn't yield easily. The miracle is that she's yielding now—to me.

I hold her tightly, supporting her as she rides out the waves of pleasure. Her breath is ragged, her body limp against mine, and I relish the satisfaction of having given her what she needed.

When her breathing finally steadies, she rebuttons her jeans and looks up at me, her eyes filled with vulnerability. “Beckett,” she breathes, her voice soft.

I ease back to study her swollen lips and wild eyes. Satisfaction burns through my veins. She looks like she did that night at The Honey Pot—wrecked, beautiful, and mine.

But it’s also different from that night. That was all heat and surprise. This is inevitable. Like every moment these last few weeks, every shared glance, every “accidental” touch has led us here.

Emotions flash across her features like summer lightning as I frame her face, my fingers brushing her cheekbones where heat blooms beneath my touch.

“George!” Sheriff Lucas’s familiar baritone calls from outside. I’ve met her father once when he came to check on the progress with the barn, so I’d know that clipped tone anywhere.

“Shit.” She pushes against my chest. “Let me go.”

I don't budge. “Not until we talk about this.”

“Beckett.” A warning edges her voice. “My dad is looking for me.”

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