Page 100 of Lost Then Found
I tighten my grip on her waist, just slightly, enough to feel the warmth of her skin through the material, enough to make her breath catch.
Enough to remind her that if Hudson wasn’t in the vicinity, I wouldn’t be standing here, swaying like a gentleman.
I’d have her pinned to the fridge, my hand sliding under that waistband, my mouth dragging against her throat up to her perfect, full lips, swallowing every last one of those soft, breathy sounds she used to make for me.
Then I’d lift her into my arms, carry her upstairs, strip her down inch by inch, savoring every bare patch of skin as it’s revealed to me. I’d step into the shower with her, press her up against the slick tile, feel the heat of the water mix with the heat of her body. Watch the rivulets run down the valley between her breasts, along the dips of her stomach.
And then I’d drop to my knees. I’d slide my hands up the backs of her thighs, hold her exactly where I want her, and taste her until she’s trembling, until my name spills from her lips in that breathless, broken way that always undoes me.
It takes every bit of willpower I have not to do it now.
Damn. Maybe I am a fucking caveman.
I swallow, trying to get my shit together, and squeeze her waist just enough to make her glance up at me.
“Stop looking at your feet,” I murmur against the shell of her ear.
Her lips part slightly, just a little, and she finally—finally—meets my gaze.
And suddenly, I don’t give a shit that Hudson is in the same room. I don’t care that we’re standing in her damn kitchen, that the dumplings are probably getting cold.
I want to kiss her.
She frowns slightly. “What?”
I clear my throat. “Just keep your eyes on me. You don’t always have to look at your feet. I’ve got you.”
Her throat bobs, and she nods. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing I am. Maybe I’m not imagining the slow flush creeping up her neck, or the way her fingers tighten just slightly on my shoulders.
I twirl her, and she spins back with a laugh, golden hair fanning out behind her.
Then she grins. “Your turn.”
“What?”
She gestures with a flick of her fingers. “You heard me. Twirl for me, cowboy.”
Hudson lets out a loud laugh from the counter.
I arch a brow, smirking. “You always were bossy.”
She winks. “Never heard you complain about that before.”
Well, shit. She’s gonna ruin me.
Maybe she already has.
But I do it. I spin, a half-assed, lazy twirl that makes Hudson clutch his stomach from laughing so hard.
“Not bad,” Hudson says, trying to catch his breath. “Could’ve been better, though.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lark says, turning toward him, hands on her hips. “I didn’t realize we had a professional ballroom judge in our midst.”
Hudson shrugs, reaching for his water. “I’m just saying. The footwork was kinda sloppy.”
Lark scoffs. “Footwork? What do you know about footwork?”
Hudson gives her a deadpan look. “Mom. I play baseball.”
