In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(2)

As soon as the last speaker finished at my conference, I wandered right back to that dive like she was singing a damn siren’s song. And there she was, sitting on the same stool at the same bar, that same grin lighting up every inch of her face.

I trace my knuckles down her arm, mesmerized by the path of goosebumps that rise in the wake of my touch.

“Do you regret it?” I sit up, gently urging her to follow. She does, long legs rearranging around my hips. “The distraction?” I clarify.

The sweat has hardly dried on my skin, but I want her again. I’ve got an itch in my palms every time I look at her. I want to taste the soft skin just under her ear, feel her body tremble and roll above mine. I want to press my hand to those two divots at the base of her spine and feel her skin burn like an inferno as she moves against me.

She smiles and bites at her bottom lip like she knows where my mind has drifted off to, tracing the line of ink that curls over my shoulder. She taps there once and I get a glance of us in the mirror above the dresser, twisted white sheets and skin that shines like spun gold, my arm banded low around her waist. Never in my life have I wanted to take a picture of myself, but the urge strikes hot and fierce now, her bare skin against mine. Her face in my neck and the swell of her ass just barely visible.

I nose beneath her chin and press a single, lingering kiss to the fluttering skin above her pulse—a wordless encouragement to answer the question.

“No. Turns out you’re a fine distraction, Beck. The best kind, really.” Her answer is a whisper, a secret in the dark. She pauses, and then: “Do you regret it?”

No, I don’t regret it. Much as I probably should. I smile and drag my teeth up the line of her throat, nip at her earlobe and tug once. I watch in the mirror as her whole body shivers, her hips rolling down into mine.

“I like your kind of distraction,” I tell her as I catch her waist with my hands. I guide her into a smooth rhythm above me until we’re both panting, her nails scratching through my hair.

“Did you—” She hums and lifts up on her knees, maneuvering us with her hand on my chest until my back is against the headboard. She’s bossy when she wants to be, and I like that she tells me exactly what she wants, how she wants it. The rasp of her voice in my ear last night had me shuddering against her, hands clenching at her hips as I worked to follow every single instruction she laid out.

“Make it slower.”

“Harder.”

“Like that, yes. Right there.”

My head hits the wood with a dull thump and she settles back in my lap, rearranging the sheets until it’s skin on skin, a low moan of want heavy on my tongue. She mumbles something under her breath and then hiccups a sigh, another sound I chase with my lips against hers. She pulls back and looks down at me through heavy eyes. “Did you want more?”

The question has me huffing a laugh. I look at her and all I seem to do is want. I lean up until I can catch her mouth in a kiss and lick deep, my hand slipping from the back of her head to curl around her jaw. I hold her there until her hands turn into fists in my hair, body shifting impatiently above mine.

I can be bossy, too.

“I want more,” I tell her—another confession—my hand slipping down between us to brush the soft skin just below her belly button. “I want everything.”



I wake to a low roll of thunder, rain drumming against thick glass. A cool breeze sweeps in through the cracked window and I twist beneath the sheets with a groan, my hand searching for sleep-warmed skin. Last I remember, Evie muttered something about room service, snuggled further into the blankets, and fell asleep with both hands wrapped around my arm. It was … nice. Different, but nice.

I lean up on my elbows and glance at the empty spot next to me. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her moving around the room—didn’t feel her slip from the bed. I don’t usually sleep so soundly.

My gaze trips to the bathroom, the door half-cracked, a used towel slung over the back of it. It’s possible she stepped out to grab coffee, but I don’t see her suitcase and the nightstand is glaringly bare. I scan the rest of the room. The only sign that she was here at all is a half-empty glass of water on the dresser—a crumpled receipt on the desk.

I collapse face-first into my pillow.

This, at least, is a familiar feeling. Waking up alone.

“Stupid,” I tell myself. I sigh and dig the heel of my palm into my forehead.

I know better.

I have things I’m supposed to be doing here, and none of them are a gorgeous woman with legs for miles.

I flip onto my back and watch storm clouds gather outside the window. I just need to remember what those things are.





NOVEMBER


EVELYN


Well.

I was not expecting that.

I pace back and forth in my room at Inglewild’s only bed and breakfast, watching my shadow follow along the floral wallpaper. Jenny, the owner, must have visited my room while I was at the farm because I came back to candlelight and cookies, everything soft and romantic.

I frown at an ivory candle and debate my options.

I was in a similar bed and breakfast that weekend in Maine. There were flowers on the windowsill and a man with art on his skin pinning me to the bed, his lips against my neck and his throaty laugh in my ear. The same man I just ran into at the farm he apparently works and I was sent to evaluate.