Reckless(54)

She shifts, and her tresses carve out a map of generous expanses I need to explore before I fucking die of hunger.

“Let me take care of you tonight, baby,” I whisper, brushing my palms over her bare shoulders.

She hesitates. It’s brief, but then she nods, reaching for me.

I love that this girl always goes for it. That although she has moments of shyness, she always takes a chance. Best yet? She doesn’t play games.

The last six years have taught me I hate goddamn games.

Tori’s a lot of things. Young. Beautiful. Feisty. Passionate. But never fickle.

It’s time I met her courage straight on.

When I pull her closer and cover her lips with mine, it’s with the knowledge that she and I are overdue.

And I’m looking forward to getting caught up.





31





Tori





Every part of me feels flushed and hot, like I’ve run a race and I’m out of breath but exhilarated from the effort. Maybe it was that stupid spider scaring me out of my wits a little while ago. Or how tender Ethan’s been with me tonight, coming to my rescue and listening to what happened to me as a child. Not laughing at me. Only wanting to comfort me.

Or maybe it’s knowing we’re about to do this for real.

Even though I’ve been with other guys, even though I’ve carelessly shared things about myself with men who didn’t deserve them, I know Ethan does, and being here with him right now feels important. It feels like a first. Like I’m handing him the parts of myself I’ve protected as I’ve waited for him to come into my life.

He leans into the shower and twists knobs until a rhythmic pulsing of water hits the tiles and steam begins to rise.

A quick pulse of expectation fires in my veins when he returns to me, finding my lips with his, and I groan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against mine.

When I pull back, I paint his mouth with my finger, wanting to memorize the feel of his skin and hue of his full lips. “I hadn’t planned on you this summer.”

He bites my finger, and I yelp and laugh.

“You know what they say. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”

Handsome and smart. I have no clue who he quoted, but I don’t really care. “Then you’re my favorite mistake.”

Smiling, I step back just enough to slide my hand down his t-shirt, so I can yank the offending material off his body. He laughs at my eagerness, reaching back to his collar to help me with that one-handed shirt removal guys do that looks effortlessly sexy.

He shakes out his thick, dirty-blond hair, the shirt relegated to the cold tile, and I bite my lower lip to keep myself from grinning when I’m treated to all six-foot-something of muscled man. Of broad shoulders painted with ink and shadow and shapes that contour his powerful physique.

Pushing up on my toes, I press a kiss to his sternum and run my fingers through his smattering of chest hair. Like I’m following a treasure map, I let the trail lead me lower. He smells so good—like soap and leather and man. His hair is still damp and curling at the ends from a shower he took earlier this evening, but I don’t remind him that he’s already clean.

His gunmetal-blue eyes stay pinned on mine as I unbutton his jeans and shove off the denim. I look down to find his bulge straining against his boxer briefs.

And what a beautiful bulge it is.

With a held breath, I skate my finger along the thick curve, but before I make it to the tip, he catches my wrist in his big palm.

“No dessert before dinner,” he chides.

I laugh and dart into the shower, letting out a squeal when he smacks my ass.

Why is he so much fun? He works tirelessly every day, his brow furrowed as he slaves in the barn, only to be this flirty, sweet guy when he comes home.

Home.

My heart warms at that word and how I’ve come to associate it with Ethan and his family.

He joins me a moment later—stark naked—and my girly parts spasm at the sight. The man is built like one of his horses. Sleek, smooth, strong.

And very hung.

He wraps me in his arms, my back to his chest. Like this, his impressive erection thumps against my rear, and I expect him to ravish me, but instead, he nibbles my neck.

“Let’s wash your hair.”

And he does. Working in the shampoo until I’m covered in bubbles and a lovely grapefruit scent.

The feeling of his strong hands massaging my scalp has me wanting to purr and curl up at his feet like his pet.

After rinsing it out, he repeats the motions with conditioner.

I’m a wrung-out mass of relaxed muscle by the time he’s done. My eyelids droop, my breath is a slow, labored effort, and my entire body feels boneless.

“How are you so good at this?” I cringe at my question, because do I really want to know about his experiences with his ex-wife or former girlfriends? Yeah, no.

The thought of him with other women is enough to send a sharp shard of jealousy through me. Even though that’s ridiculous. We’re only starting out. Barely becoming a we. I can’t become a crazy jealous lover if we’re hardly even lovers.

I brace myself, just in case, but the effort is unnecessary.

“I have two kids, remember?” But then he kisses my neck and murmurs, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this, though, because I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before.”