Page 77 of Always Meant for You
I lower my hand, tracing her jaw. The slope of her cheek is warm against my touch. She doesn’t move. Her breath stutters, and that quiet pause between us feels louder than the thunder.
I lean in. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
She exhales a shaky breath. “I’m not stopping you. But I doubt you’ll do it.”
She’s tempting me to cross a line I’ve walked for years without ever stepping over. And still, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to kiss her. But because I want it too much. Years of longing crash through me in one silent, unstoppable wave.
The first drops of rain fall, and I move in, then still.
“See, you’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she whispers, not moving, not blinking, like the space between us hasn’t already caught fire.
But I don’t back down. I stay right there, every muscle locked with the control I’m about to lose. I lean in a fraction closer, my lips a breath away from hers.
I draw my thumb across her bottom lip. “Don’t mistake me taking my time for not following through, Mabel.” I slide my hand down and palm her ass. She gasps, and I pull her closer. “You have no idea what I want to do to you. And how goddamned badly I want to do it.”
Chapter Fifteen
CAL
I don’t remember moving. All I know is the feeling of my lips pressed to Mabel’s, and silence where my doubt used to live. And then . . . I lose control.
There’s nothing soft about this kiss. It’s a collision, a tangle of lips and teeth and frustration and years of wanting. Her mouth opens, and our tongues meet in a wild, frenzied rhythm. I’m drowning in her, and I don’t want air. I want her—every sound, every breath, every soft whimper she gives me.
She threads her fingers in my hair, and the ground drops out beneath me. My thoughts shatter. I can’t find reason. I don’t want to.
I hold her close. Her chest presses to mine.
I’m not a man known for taking. I give to this town, to the farm, to my grandmother. But with Mabel, God help me, I want to take it all. I want every kiss. Every moan. Every beat of her heart. She rocks her hips, grinding against me, that scrap of a skirt riding up as I squeeze her ass. Silk and lace brush my fingers. I’m back in her bedroom. Storming in, catching a glimpse of her panties.
After she took off, I locked myself in my room, angry and broken. I’d gripped my cock, stroking fast, frantic, and picturingher. Fantasizing about ripping those panties off her body and burying myself inside her. I came hard, ashamed and wrecked, and swore I’d never open my heart again.
I was wrong. God, I was so wrong.
The sky splits open, and I kiss her harder. Her lips slide against mine, her tongue stroking deep and relentless. She’s heat and fury, and she’s pouring herself into me with every frantic sweep of her mouth.
I bite her bottom lip, and she gasps. The sound nearly undoes me. I chase it. Taste it. Draw her lip between my teeth again until she moans. She’s broken and perfect and mine.
All mine.
Rain lashes against us.
I can’t stop touching her. But this isn’t about claiming. It’s about remembering. About memorizing the feel of her in case I lose her again. Her hands are under my shirt. Her nails scrape across my back, dragging every nerve to the surface. Her body folds into mine so completely that it makes my chest ache.
I grip her ass and lift her in one fluid motion, instinct and need colliding. Her legs wrap around my waist, her heels locking behind me like this is where she’s always belonged. Like making out in the middle of a dark country road in a goddamn thunderstorm is the most natural thing in the world.
I clutch her tighter. Mouths. Hands. Rain. Heat. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
“Mabel . . .” The word catches in my throat. “I . . .”
I don’t know what I’m about to say.
She eases back, breathing hard, and presses her forehead to mine. And this fragile sliver of quiet between us feels more intimate than the kiss. I close my eyes and breathe her in. The rain, our mingling breaths, the weight of it all.
She looks at me, her gaze steady. Then, with a tenderness that guts me, she brushes the rain from my cheek.
“We should go,” she says, barely above a whisper.
I don’t want to move. Don’t want to shift a muscle and risk losing whatever this is—whatever fragile thread still tethers her to me.
