Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(68)

“I could’ve been a serial killer.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t.”

“Yeah, but I could’ve been.”

We exchange a grin.

He puts his arm over my shoulder and pulls me into his side. I fall into him, my head leaning against his chest. It feels like the most natural thing I’ve ever done.

My arm snakes around his waist. I can feel the muscles in his lower back flex as he moves. It’s sexier than any smile or any touch or any act I’ve ever seen because it’s unintentional. Just a strong man letting a woman rest against him. And maybe, a strong woman letting a man rest against her.

“I feel like most people probably label things that feel like this,” he says roughly.

The hesitation in his tone is obvious and one I can’t deny. It’s something I can’t say I don’t share as well.

This is all new. Really, really new. And even though it feels like I’ve known him for a lifetime, I haven’t.

I have to trust myself enough to know what’s right for me, and I have to trust him enough to know he wouldn’t hurt me.

And I don’t think he will. But do I ask him?

“I’m not totally sure where you’re going with that,” I say cautiously.

“Where do you want me to be going with that?”

I consider this. “I don’t know. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

“I . . .” He gulps as his fingers play with the hem of my shirt. “I think we’re really good friends. And that’s a good thing. So, maybe, you know, we could try something else.” He looks at me, his eyes shining. “I’d like to see what happens.”

My heart starts to beat frantically. Of course this is what I want. I know it as soon as he says the words. But the logical part of my brain warns me to take it easy because a tiger’s stripes don’t change overnight.

“I’ve seen enough . . . friendships to know that what you call them doesn’t matter,” he says. “I know a lot of people that label a woman a girlfriend or wife, but they don’t act any different than before. It’s like sticking a piece of paper on a grain of rice and calling it a meal.”

I laugh. “Nice analogy.”

“It might not work, but you know what I mean.”

He strokes the top of my arm with his fingertips so lightly that I wonder if he realizes he’s doing it. I lean into his touch. The rough pads of his fingers send shocks through my body with every brush against my skin.

He spins me around slowly so I’m facing him. My breath halts in my chest.

The look in his eyes is intense, but tender—raw, like he’s waited on this exact moment for so long that he’s having a hard time holding himself back.

My body tightens as a shiver rips through my body.

He holds my gaze with a slight crook of his brow. It’s like he’s warning me about what’s to come and is giving me an out.

Not a chance, buddy.

He seems to read my mind, because a wicked grin slips across his face. He widens his hips so I’m standing between his legs and looks down at me with hooded eyes.

“Now, before this goes any further,” he says, “I’m going to be fucked up about this after. I don’t know how, exactly, but I’m absolutely sure things won’t be the same way they are right now. If you have any reservations, tell me. We’ll get in the truck and go home.”

His usual confidence is marred by a streak of nervousness. I don’t want him to be nervous. I want him to be Penn in every way.

There’s only one thing I know to do.

“I actually have one thing,” I say.

His brows pull together. “Really?”

“Yes.” I keep my face completely straight. “What if you don’t deliver eight inches? I mean, you’ve basically promised me that, and I’m not sure how I’ll feel if I’m disappointed.”

He bursts out laughing. “You little shit.” He cups my face in his large hands. “You always make me smile.”

“Well,” I whisper, angling my body toward his, “if you’d stop talking, I could make you really, really smile.”

“Damn you,” he groans.

His mouth dips to mine. Our lips touch, and I swear fireworks tear through my veins.

His hands drop to my throat, then to my shoulders and down my arms. They course roughly down my back until he’s gripping my ass and hauling me into his chest.

The years since we were here last, on top of all the kisses and almost-kisses of the last few days, add up to this moment. His lips devour me—my mouth, my tongue, my jawline. It’s like he can’t get enough.

I can’t get enough.

I moan as he kisses the side of my neck, his fingers finding the edge of my shirt. He lifts it up and over my head, tossing it somewhere near the oak tree. I feel the clasp of my bra release. He steps back far enough to remove it.

The air kisses my nipples right before he does. He licks one, then the other before swirling it with his tongue. He palms the other, taking the pebble in between his fingers and sending shocks of desire through my body. I press him against me by the back of his head.

He nibbles and kisses a path back to my lips and presses a final kiss to my cheek. “You are so fucking beautiful. Do you know that?”