Crazy in Love (Blue Lake #3)(22)

He dropped his head and planted a gentle kiss on her lips. Gone were the thoughts of Cole Turner skipping out of town. Gone were the worries of being left behind, broken-hearted. She wasn’t marrying the guy, she was kissing him.

There was nothing serious about a little, innocent peck.

And then, when she thought he’d pull back, he slid one hand around her waist and yanked her against him. She sucked in a surprised breath. He took advantage of the opening, sliding his tongue past her lips.

God, he tasted good. Like spice and whiskey mixed into a warm, yummy blend that made her stomach whirl.

Her lips were deliciously numb, so she mashed them against his and drove her fingers through his hair. He groaned at the contact, and suckled her bottom lip into his mouth. A fierce blaze of desire lashed through her and blew that innocent kiss to smithereens.

It was the night, the whiskey, the taste of Cole’s mouth and the skill of his tongue as it tangled with hers. Whatever the reason, she hopped back onto the table and drew him closer with her thighs. Pool balls scattered behind her; out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the eight ball dropping into the corner pocket.

Game over.

“Whoa, hold up,” Cole said, ripping his mouth from hers. His gaze trailed over her shoulder. “As much as I like what you’re doin’ right here, there are people watching. I can’t afford pictures showing up online.”

She craned her neck around. The bartender, Nathan Ogletree, was averting his eyes, pretending to dry the bar with a wet towel—she wasn’t buying it—and Dom, the town’s snow-plower and painter, was holding up his phone.

“Did you take a picture, Dom?” Rachael spat, spinning around.

He shrugged big, flannel-covered shoulders. “What if I did?”

“Shit,” Cole said. “This is what I was worried about.”

Rachael narrowed her eyes, holding Dom square in her sights. “If anything shows up online, I swear to God that I’ll tell your mother about the graffiti we did to her barn.”

Dom shoved his phone into his breast pocket and shuffled outside.

“You graffitied a little old lady’s barn?” Cole asked.

She laughed into a snort. “You’re not the only one who had a delinquent streak in school.”

“Rachael McCoy, you are one sweet surprise after another.” His hand moved to her thigh. “What do you say we go back to your inn and finish what we started here?”

“I’m not falling for you, Cole Turner,” she said rather decidedly. “I won’t let myself.”

“That’s good,” he said, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Because I’m not talking about falling for anyone. I’m talking about hot and heavy, make-you-forget-your-own-name sex. What’d you say?”

Is this really what she—

“Hell, yes!” She hopped off the pool table, and dragged him out of the saloon.





Chapter Eight





They burst through the front door of the inn, laughing as their mouths collided. Cole pinned her against the door as it swung wide and slammed into the wall.

“Wait,” she said, gasping for air. “Waitwaitwait.”

He licked her bottom lip. “For what?”

He smelled like rich spice and tasted like whiskey—she wanted to lap him up and eat him in one swift helping.

“I can’t…” She clawed at the wide breadth of his shoulders, her fingers suddenly numb as they skidded down his bicep. “…breathe.”