That was the problem. I knew it was unlikely either of those would happen now.
I flopped back on the motel bed, still damp from a shower I’d taken twenty minutes ago—and already debating if I needed another one, because Nate’s touch was still clinging to my skin like steam. I’d packed a book. I’d queued up a podcast. I’d even pulled out a face mask and tried to convince myself I was on a relaxing solo trip and not one that had been emotionally hijacked by the hottest man I’d ever met.
He’d touched me today. Really touched me. And I knew—deep down—that if I’d asked for more, he would’ve given it.
But then he’d stopped. Pulled away like I’d burned him. Walked off like he regretted every second.
Except he didn’t look like he regretted it.
He looked wrecked.
So was I.
I was twenty-nine years old—practically thirty—and I’d never felt this kind of wanting before. The kind that made your skin feel too tight and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. The kind that made you pace hotel rooms and change clothes and wonder if you were brave enough to go after what you wanted. The kind that made you wish your lingerie was cuter and your legs were smoother and your courage didn’t hiccup every time you thought about taking what you wanted.
A knock at the door made me sit up fast.
I knew it was him before I opened it. Maybe it was the way he knocked—firm but hesitant, like he was fighting with himself even as he stood there. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.
I pulled the door open and saw Nate standing in the hallway, his hair still damp like he’d just come from a shower. He was wearing jeans and a black shirt that made his eyes look even darker.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly aware that I was wearing a pair of baby doll pajamas that did nothing to hide my curves. Thin satin. No bra. Barely there fabric.
“I shouldn’t be here.” It was a statement. A broody, growly statement that made my body clench in response.
“But you are.”
He didn’t answer, Not with words.
He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him. His hands were in my hair before I could breathe, his mouth crashing onto mine like he’d run out of excuses. I gasped, grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and kissed him back just as hungrily.
God, I’d wanted this.
Wanted him.
His hands slid down my body—rough, confident, searching. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let myself get lost in it, in him, in the way he kissed like he’d spent the past twenty-four hours starving for me.
“This is a bad idea,” he growled, backing me toward the bed.
“Probably.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Then stop.”
“No.”
Cue full-body internal meltdown.
And then he was kissing me, and every thought in my head scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. This kiss was different from the others—slower, deeper, full of intention. Like he had all the time in the world and planned to use every second of it to drive me crazy.
His hands tangled in my hair, and I pressed closer, needing more contact, more of him.
“I need to touch you,” he murmured against my mouth. “All of you.”
The words sent heat spiraling through me, but they also brought a flutter of nerves. “Nate, I... I’m not exactly... I mean, I don’t look like—”
He pulled back to look at me, his eyes serious. “Like what?”
