Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(41)

Her face falls as she types. Then why do I know almost nothing about you? My body tenses as I read her words. Why don’t I know you’re a badass soccer player? Why do you know my favorite food and post-game ritual, and I don’t even know how you spend your weekends, or what you do for fun? How’s that fair?

I narrow my eyes at her, then type, Fair?

She throws up her hands, then grabs her phone and types furiously. Yes, fair! Why do I run my mouth around you, why do I tell you anything about my life, just for you to use it against me, to throw it in my face and tease me left and right? Then there’s you. What do I have to work with? A closed-off, cold, contained Abominable Snowman.

Now back up, I type. I tell you things. You met my friends, my roommates, I brought you to my house—I never do that. You know my schedule. You know I hate peanut butter cups.

She lobs a small pebble at me, so I look up. “Because that’s weird to hate peanut butter cups. Because you deserve shame for hating peanut butter cups. And I only came to your house and met Tucker and Becks because we had to do this project together.”

Because that’s the only thing that ever brought us together, Willa! Your world is not my world. I hit send and watch her face shift as she reads.

Suddenly, Willa looks up at me, her eyes tight. Her stare is unblinking and I can’t hold it. Stupidly, indulgently, my eyes roam her body. Water rushes around us, the mist plastering her scant clothes closer to her body, tightening the curls in her hair. God, she’s perfect. Muscular and fit, and still the faint curves of a woman. I felt those strong thighs in my grip, her high breasts smashed to my back.

I shut my eyes, trying to scrub the image from my brain, to erase the desire staining my system.

I sense movement and my eyes jerk open. Willa’s gaze glows as she leans onto all fours, then crawls my way. My heart pounds in my ears, heat floods my stomach and lower. I’m keyed up and cornered and I have no idea what Willa’s about to do.

She straddles my legs and I involuntarily hold my breath. Reaching past me, she yanks the stem off a plant, then sits back on her haunches, right on my thighs. My nails claw ineffectually into the slate beneath my palms. My pulse thunders, watching her rip off a leaf and set it to my lips.

“Mint.”

I sniff it, giving her a suspicious look that makes her grin.

“I’m not poisoning you, Lumberjack, see?” She stuffs a leaf in her mouth and chews happily. “You more than anyone should know what this is. Mint.”

I open my mouth, feeling the warmth between her legs slide over my thigh. She leans and sets the leaf on my tongue, and air finally rushes out of me.

Pungent mint bursts inside my mouth. The leaf tickles as I chew and watch Willa mirroring my movements. Her throat works as she swallows, and hunger coils tight inside me. Willa’s hands clasp mine, then skate up my arms. I can’t hear my breath, but I can feel it. I can feel each violent tug of air, the pound of my pulse along my length. Need soars up my chest, tightens my throat.

I stare at her lips. It takes considerable effort not to bite them.

“What do you want, Ryder?” her mouth says.

What do I want? That’s not the question. The question is what do I get? Do I want Willa? Hell, yes. Can I have her?

She leans closer. “What do you want?”

I’ve spent weeks restraining myself. Weeks trying not to picture her every time I close my eyes at night or pass a soccer field or taste oranges or smell roses. I haven’t touched myself once to the thought of her. I’ve shut it down every step of the way.

I could lie to her, text her some stinging jab, politely set her off my lap. But I don’t want to. What do I want? I want her. So. Fucking. Badly.

Her eyes are luminous, sunlight pale and wide, as they flick to my mouth. My shoulders flex as Willa’s fingers wrap around them.

She arches forward, making her breasts slide against my bare chest. My fingers sink into her hair and grab hold, nothing gentlemanly in my touch. I feel primal. Desperate. I fist her hair tight and watch her mouth fall open. Those lips. I’ve watched them for months, tortured by how full and soft they look, dying to taste them. I sit straight and slide my palm around her neck. My mouth lowers toward hers, controlled, slow. One moment we’re separate, the next we’re fused.

Boom.

Velvet-soft, decadent. The feel of her sweet mouth is so much better than I imagined. I gasp for air and steal hers. She tastes like mint leaves and something sweet that must simply be Willa. I haul her tighter to me, wrap her in my arms, as my hands feel everything I’ve barely let myself imagine touching. The dip and swell of her backbone, the jut of her hips, the curve of her waist. Every single rib.

When I part her lips and tease her tongue, she moans. I want to throw her down, rip off her swimsuit and rut into her like an animal, but if I’ve learned anything in my life it’s patience, it’s the long game. So, I’m gentle, exploratory. Our tongues tangle, a seeking kiss that starts whisper soft and ends in an open-mouthed beg for more. It becomes hungrier tastes, wet and hot, slow and lazy. Breathing is an obligation, and I resent its interference in the best kiss of my life.

Willa’s arms curl around my neck. She presses herself into me, her warmth seated over my lap, where I’m hard as fucking stone for her. She sighs as she feels it, and her fingers scrape through my hair. I can’t help but groan and sense my voice filling her mouth. It’s so impossibly sexy to feel her sounds, to give her mine.