Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(43)

I want to thank her in a way that my words won’t let me, so rather than mauling her like a teenager, I take a ragged breath and let myself drink her in for a moment. The pert tip of her nose. The thick fringe of her lashes. The heartbeat in her temple, just in front of where that beautiful copper hair starts.

I release her arm and trail my knuckles over her skin, starting at her shoulder, slowly dragging them down to her wrist. I’m fascinated by the spray of goose bumps that crop up in the wake of my touch.

My fingers slide between hers, her palm fitting so perfectly in mine.

“I don’t know this game,” she whispers, and I drop my hand from above her head, pressing into her body with the full length of mine. My free hand slides into her hair, and I watch as I slowly comb through the strands, the burnished tone of it matching my tanned skin so well.

“Me neither, Red.” My eyes stay glued to her hair. Truthfully, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. All I know is that I want to savor this.

Savor her.

Because I have a sinking feeling that when we step out of these bales, things will look a lot different. The dusty, grassy smell will drift away, and reality will seep back in.

The reality where I know better than to go after a girl like Willa Grant.

A reality where I’m still too fucking wounded to trust someone.

“Are you gonna make a move, Eaton? Or just stand here petting me?”

My head shakes and my chest rumbles as I chance a look at her eyes. Clear and certain, so bright.

I feel safe when I’m scowling, but it’s getting harder and harder to look at Willa Grant without smiling.

It’s with a smile on my lips that I lean in and press my mouth to hers. She’s soft and willing. She parts for me with such ease. Welcomes the kiss.

Takes me.

When I groan, she whimpers into my mouth, and I swallow her sweet little sounds. Wanting to keep them for myself, memorize them for a rainy day.

It’s been years since I’ve been touched like this, and my chest cracks open at the feel. The contact. The closeness. The intimacy. Hands sliding up over my chest, pressing up over my neck before gripping either side of my skull. Dainty fingertips behind my ears.

I didn’t even realize how badly I missed the attention of a woman. And not just any woman. The woman I’ve glued my attention to from the moment I saw her.

The woman who’s thawed my icy heart in a matter of weeks.

Heartless. That’s what Talia called me in her letter. And I believed her.

I still do.

But it’s hard to deny the feeling in my chest right now. The ache. The heat.

It’s especially hard to deny the bulge in my pants. The one I’m grinding against Willa.

That part does have me feeling like a teenager.

She moans, hiking a leg up at my waist, opening herself to rub back against me, and I take that opportunity to swipe my tongue into her mouth, to shape my fingers into a fist in her hair.

To go with the intensity of the moment, even though I thought I could keep it sweet and slow. That’s the thing about Willa. She doesn’t strike me as the sweet and slow type of girl.

Every time I draw away, she pushes harder. Every time I glare at her, she prods, hoping for a reaction. And now she’s getting it.

“Willa—”

“Don’t stop.” Our teeth clash as she talks against my mouth. What started off reverently is quickly turning frantic. A well-crafted facade coming apart at every seam.

I take a handful of her round ass, squeezing hard, before picking her right up and pulling her toned legs around me so I can rut into the denim covering her pussy like the sex-starved caveman I am.

“Yes,” she hisses when my fingers trail over the torn hem of her shorts.

She smells like oranges and warm grass, refreshing and comforting all at once. She feels like heaven in my hands. And she looks just as wild as I’ve always known she is.

But there’s something about seeing her wild for me—giving in for me—that makes me feel more desired than I have in, well, ever.

“Don’t stop.” Her hips swivel against mine as my fingers inch dangerously close to where I might find out if she’s actually wearing panties.

I imagine inspecting her every morning. Bending her over the kitchen counter. Flipping up some flimsy sun dress that’s just her silent way of begging me to fuck her.

“You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” I husk against her ear, lost in the daydream.

My tongue glides against hers, gently probing her mouth. The same way I’d slide a finger into her slick pussy.

She whimpers the way she would when I add a second finger. And then a third.

“Fuck,” she hums against my lips, because my hands are moving of their own fruition, fisting her hair and plumping one full breast.

It’s all too real. Too much.

Too fucking easy to imagine.

By the time I realize how far down into this fantasy I’ve disappeared, I’m throbbing in my pants. Leaking in my pants.

Like a teenager.

Heat shoots through my groin, and I bite back any sign of what just happened. Willa is clueless, still soft and desperate in my hands.

And clearly more than I can handle, which is why I step away panting. Needing some space. Needing to hide from my skyrocketing levels of intense humiliation.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” is what I come up with. A douchebag thing to say, no doubt. But it’s all too much in this moment.