Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Her jeans come off with a struggle—too impatient to be careful, too desperate to take our time. My hands are everywhere, squeezing, stroking, worshipping.
She gasps when I sink inside her from behind, her body clenching around me, perfect and warm and so goddamn tight I nearly lose it right there.
“Jesus, Wren,” I growl against her shoulder. My hips snap forward, and I give her every inch of me before grabbing a handful of her behind. “I’ve missed this perfect little ass.”
She whimpers, her breath fogging the glass, her palms flat against it as I drive into her, slow and deep at first, savoring every reaction, every little shiver that rolls through her body.
“Say it,” I rasp, my hand sliding up her front, palming her breast, fingers tweaking her nipple through her bra. “Tell me you’re mine.”
She moans, arching her back into me, needy and breathless. “I’m yours.”
“Damn right you are.”
I move harder now, the truck rocking faintly on its shocks, every sharp thrust dragging a broken sound from her throat. The cab is thick with the scent of us—sex, sweat, heat—the air barely breathable, but neither of us cares.
I fist her hair gently, pulling her head back just enough to mouth at her neck, sucking hard enough to leave evidence. My free hand slides between her thighs, finding her clit, teasing it just enough to make her squirm and gasp.
“Come for me,” I mutter against her ear. “Come on, honey. Show me how bad you want it, how much you’ve missed it.”
She cries out, legs trembling, her body convulsing around me as I fuck her through it, chasing my own release with every desperate thrust. I swear under my breath when I hit the edge, spilling into her with a groan, my head falling to her shoulder, sweat slicking my back.
We stay like that for a moment, bodies trembling, breaths tangled.
Eventually, I pull back, our skin sticky and damp, and we fumble for our clothes—half-clothed, hair a mess, skin flushed. We climb out of the truck, the cool night air biting at our overheated bodies.
I pin her against the side of the truck, kissing her hard, deep, like I’m still starving for her because I am. I’ll never get my fill of this woman, not until my dying day.
“You’re mine,” I tell her, my hands cradling her face. “I’ve been trying to tell you that from the start.”
I brush my thumb across her kiss-swollen lips, my eyes locked on hers.
She looks at me like she’s still catching up, like she doesn’t know if she wants to kiss me again or slap me for being this intense. I like that. I like her fire. I’ve missed it.
“I really hate to leave you like this, but I’ve got an early morning,” I tell her, still reluctant to let her go, “but I’ll be back tomorrow. You have my word.”
I kiss her again. “And the day after that. And the day after that . . .”
She smiles softly, something simmering behind her eyes that looks suspiciously like hope.
Before I leave, I reach into my jacket pocket and hand her a folded note.
She looks at it, one brow raised. “What’s this?”
“Just read it later.”
She gives me that wary, curious look but tucks it into her pocket.
“Also, I’m taking you out on a date,” I add. “A proper date. This Friday. Pick you up at seven.”
With that, I climb back into the truck, my body still humming from her, and drive off into the night, already counting the hours until I can see her again.
I’m not just falling for this woman, I’m plummeting.
There’s no going back after this.
She’s got me.
I’m not going anywhere.
I’ll be her happily ever after if it takes me the rest of our lives.
60
Wren
I’m still flushed and raw when I get back inside, the air cooling the parts of me that still feel his touch—his hands, his mouth, his weight. I should shower. I should sleep.
Instead, I pull the folded piece of paper from my pocket.
It’s crumpled a bit, the corner bent, the words McAninch Seeds stamped faintly at the top in green ink, like it was scrap paper he grabbed in a hurry. His handwriting is small, almost messy, the kind of penmanship you have to squint to understand—like every letter was written with impatience.
I sit at the kitchen table, the light low, the house dead quiet, and I unfold it carefully.
And I read.
Wren,
I’m not great with words. Never have been. Never been good at saying how I feel. But I figured I’d start with what I thought the first time I saw you. I thought you were trouble. The kind of trouble a man like me doesn’t walk away from. I thought you were beautiful—so beautiful it almost made me mad. I thought you looked like you’d burn a man to the ground if he got too close, and I guess I was right because here I am, writing a letter like I’m twenty years old.