Page 51 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
But it’s not Wyatt. It’s a student, I think, in a dark green skirt that flows like wind in the summer leaves. She strides throughthe parking lot, her gaze locked on the woods behind me. A tiny spike of anxiety strikes me, and I glance over my shoulder into the tree line, but there’s nothing there. I turn back just as the woman draws even with the truck. I can’t help but notice she’s incredibly beautiful: tawny brown skin kissed by the sun, long locks of golden hair, and big, dark eyes. When the light hits her hair, a strange, spring-green shimmer runs along the strands.
She doesn’t seem to notice me. I get it; if I were going out into the woods to collect a sample in the middle of my research, I wouldn’t notice an entire mariachi band set up in the parking lot. I lean against the window, curious as always. I think about calling out to her, apparently hungry for another discussion with a fellow academic. Once I get started, it’s hard to stop.
But then the driver’s-side door opens. I startle, turning to find Wyatt sliding into the truck. He’s mercilessly goo-less, and all thoughts of the student-researcher in the flowy skirt evaporate from my mind.
“Oh, thank fuck,” I murmur, drinking him in—the flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, the sharp line of his jaw covered in dark stubble, the mischievous quirk of his mouth. “I was worried you’d be covered in bluecap slime.”
He pulls the door closed behind him and slides closer to me. “Suppose then I’d just have to strip for you,” he says with a grin. “You’d hate that, I’m sure.”
I laugh, reaching for him. “I can’t imagine a worse fate,” I reply, shuffling over to the middle of the wide bench seat. He captures my waist with both hands, pulling me into his lap, and I’m all too happy to oblige.
“Spriggans, not bluecaps,” he tells me in a low, breathy tone, his chest hitching as I move to straddle him, gripping his broad shoulders. “Should’ve known. Typical spriggan humor.”
For once in my life, I don’t give a single shit about Them. I have no urge to ask questions about spriggans or pull mynotebook from my back pocket. I only want to drown in the deep, dark forest of Wyatt’s kiss. He traces the side of my face with one hand as I press myself closer to him, arching my back. I take fistfuls of his flannel in both hands and kiss him before my mind betrays me.
He tastes like bonfire smoke and caramel coffee. I gasp against his lips, threading my fingers into his dark, tousled hair. One of his hands slips beneath my sweater, flattening against the small of my back. My body responds immediately, my hips grinding against him, and I’m left with little doubt that Wyatt wants me as badly as I want him. His tongue slides into my mouth, and desire roars through my body like a wildfire.
Before I can think better of it, I’m pulling off my sweater, tossing it into the back of the truck’s cab.
“Gods, Alice,” he growls, his dark eyes sliding down my body, lingering on the skimpy bralette.
“Like what you see, Hayes?” I ask, trying to shove his flannel off his shoulders.
He answers me with a low, breathless sound, wrapping both hands around my waist and pulling me even closer. His mouth meets my collarbone, his fingertips sliding beneath the strap of my bralette.
I shrug my shoulder, letting the silky strap tumble down around my bicep. The sound of his sharp, hungry inhale summons even more damp heat between my legs. When he kisses the curve of my breast, his lips impossibly soft and his breath hot against my skin, I whimper.
“More, Wyatt,” I beg, wrapping my fingers around his hand and dragging it to the waistband of my jeans.
He laughs against my skin, pulling away just enough to meet my gaze. Mischief glitters in his dark brown eyes, making me think of the smoky quartz clusters a roommate used to keep lined up on her windowsill: deep and fathomless, all sharpcorners and hard angles until the sun hit them just right. Then, nothing short of magic.
And that’s precisely what it feels like when Wyatt unbuttons my jeans and slides his large, powerful hand beneath the band of my underwear. He’s barely touching me—and not even touching me where I’m begging to be touched, not quite—but I still let out a cry. With anyone else, I might be self-conscious about it, but not with him.
“You’re insatiable, aren’t you, Alice?” he asks, wrapping his free hand around the back of my neck and dragging my mouth to his. I tumble into his kiss, driving my hips against his fingers.
“You knew what you were getting into,” I gasp against his lips. I feel him smile, and then his fingertips press against the place I’ve been daydreaming about him touching me for too long. Desperately, I fumble at his belt buckle.
“Not so fast, Miss Blythe,” Wyatt drawls as his slow circles at the apex of my thighs come to an agonizing halt. “I’ve been thinking about this for longer than I think is wise to tell you. I don’t want any distractions.”
I heave a deep breath. His hand slides down my neck to my collarbone and then lower, cupping my breast in his fingers, his thumb brushing my nipple. I can’t honestly think of the last time any guy I hooked up with was more concerned about my pleasure than his own.
“How are you so perfect?” I ask. I mean to say it playfully, in that arch tone I’m so accustomed to using, but it comes out far too honestly. The words scrape at the side of my throat as I gaze down at him—the flush in his cheeks, his hair tousled by my fingers, his lips swollen from the intensity of our exchange.
Wyatt looks up at me with surprise, one eyebrow raised. If he says something clever, I miss it, because he increases the pressure at my core and pleasure surges through me. I’m puttyin his arms, melting further and further into his strong embrace, not a single thought in my mind. Well, except for one:
I could absolutely fall in love with Wyatt Hayes.
Suddenly, he goes stock-still beneath me. The breath I pull in to ask what’s wrong answers my question—the taste of sulfur fills my mouth, and I gag, reaching over to crank the window back up.
“Not a godsdamned moment of peace,” Wyatt snaps, pulling me closer against him as he peers over my shoulder through the windshield.
I yank my sweater on—I’m not getting caught with my not-so-proverbial pants down by a fuckinghellhound—and zip up my jeans with shaking hands.
“I don’t see it,” I bite out, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Me, neither,” he says, staring out into the sunset-gilded parking lot.
“That’s actually…worse?” I offer just as the truck rocks with impact. I scramble for the pistol I know he keeps in the glove compartment at the same time he starts swearing, yanking down the sun visor where the keys are stowed and slamming them into the ignition.
