Page 19 of Wishing Hearts

Harrison goes still against me. Even his chest stops moving, as if he’s holding his breath. I open my mouth to apologize for the poorly timed joke—which wasn’t really a joke—when Harrison turns his head slightly. His lips touch my cheek.

“Would you?” he asks, and this time, it’s my breath getting caught in my chest.

I nod. One quick, short movement.

Harrison inhales, as if he’s scenting me. As if he’s breathing me in. And even though we’re surrounded by the smell of animals and motor oil hanging in the air inside the shed, I wonder if he can find me underneath it all.

“Sam,” he says again.

My heart starts to pound.

“Whatever you want,” I tell him, repeating the words I said two days ago, when all this was was trying to get a gorgeous man into bed. I’m not sure what, exactly, it is now, but it feels like something else. “Whatever you need.”

“I…” he says before cutting off, but he doesn’t move away. In fact, one of his boots knocks into mine as he moves an inch closer. “I shouldn’t.”

Shouldn’t. Not can’t. Not don’t want to.

“Who says?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

“Harrison,” I say gently, slipping my hands over the broadness of his back, rubbing a little but not venturing too low. “D’you want me to convince you? Or d’you want me to back up and open this door?”

He takes four breaths before muttering, “Convince me.”

Oh damn. All right, then.

Sliding my hands lower, I run my fingers over his work shirt and then his jeans. I stop on his ass, palming him and tugging him closer. Harrison gasps, breath on my neck.

“Lemme make you feel good,” I say, digging my fingers into his cheeks and turning my head. Mouth at his ear, I all but whisper, “I wanna hear you call my name.”

A sound catches inside of Harrison’s throat, only half-formed. His hand moves to my side, fingers skating over my shirt, barely touching.

“This isn’t because of him,” he says. The ex. “I wanted you before.”

I nod, lips skimming Harrison’s neck. I know he did.

“I don’t want you to think I’m using you,” he adds.

“Use me,” I say, opening my lips and swiping my tongue over Harrison’s skin.

He groans, head falling back, fingers digging into my side. “Kiss me.”

Grin on my lips, I turn my head. Harrison does the same, connecting our mouths in an instant. And ho-ly shit. I was not ready. I was not prepared for the way my body would light the moment Harrison’s lips touch mine. It’s incendiary, and suddenly, my back is against the shed door, and Harrison is crowding me into the wood.

I groan, the sound eaten up and swallowed down between us, lost to this temporary void we’ve found ourselves in, where nothing—and no one else—matters but this.

Harrison reaches for my belt, and I do the same to his, our hands fumbling between us as our lips remain locked. He tastes like salt from our sweat. Like hard work and something I want to call my own.

When he gets my jeans open and his hand wraps around my erection, my whole body jolts.

“Sam,” he says. “Do you have a condom?”

And, oh fuck, is that a question.

I nod hastily, pulling my wallet from my back pocket as Harrison’s tongue tangles with my own. His hand tugs me rhythmically, sending waves of bliss rolling up and down my shaft as I quickly snag a condom and packet of lube from my wallet.

I have never been more grateful for the optimism leading me to be prepared for such an occasion.

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