I swing the blade again, harder this time, more to redirect blood flow than anything else. “That so?” I ask, stepping closer, just enough for our shoulders to brush as we reach for the same low-hanging branch.
She doesn’t move away.
Her skin’s warm, soft, slick with sweat, and for a second I just stand there, not pulling back. Her breath catches. I feel it more than I hear it.
“Seems unfair,” I murmur, voice low, “you get to say shit like that and not expect me to test it.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. There’s a warning there. A dare.
She leans in just slightly, her lips a whisper away from my jaw. “Then maybe I’m testingyou.”
I let the branch fall.
The heat between us is wildfire-hot now, pulsing, hungry.
But she steps back, deliberately, fingers brushing mine like a challenge as she does.
“Keep clearing, Taylor,” she says, smirking. “Before the jungle wins.”
Oh, woman. You have no idea what I’m going to do with that attitude.
Together, we clear the remaining brush, working in a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. When the path is finally open, revealing the wide, slow-moving stretch of river, I force myself to stay put rather than retreating back to the house.
Mia steps forward, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the water glittering in the late morning sun.
“It's perfect,” she breathes.
“It's not an Olympic pool,” I warn, trying to keep my voice steady. “But the current's gentle here, and there's a deeper section on the far side that's good for swimming.”
“How deep?” she asks, already kicking off her shoes.
“About twelve feet at the center. Jake and I used to—” I stop, the words catching in my throat.
Her eyes soften. “Used to what?”
I swallow hard. “Used to jump from that rock outcropping over there.” I nod toward it “We’d compete to see who could make the biggest splash.”
Instead of the pity I expect, her face lights up with a mischievous grin. “I bet I could beat your record.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “Is everything a competition with you?”
“Pffft, pretty much.”
When she peels off her tank top, my pulse spikes and my IQ drops by at least fifty points.
She’s not doing it slow—not trying to be seductive—but God, it’s worse that she’s not. It’s so casual. So damn effortless. Like I’m not standing five feet away about to combust.
Her sports bra clings to her like a second skin, slick with sweat, the swell of her breasts rising with every breath. Then come the shorts. They slide down her hips, revealing black cotton underwear that hugs her ass like it was tailored to test a man’s restraint.
I look away. Because if I don’t, I’m going to say something I can’t take back. Or drop to my knees and say it with my tongue.
I clear my throat, try to focus on the water. Try to pretend I’m not imagining her legs wrapped around me, those thighs tightening, head tipped back the way she—
“It’s just underwear, Grant,” she says, voice light, teasing. “Not like you haven’t seen more.”
Oh, I’ve seen more, alright. I’vefeltmore. That night in the bar restroom still lives in my head rent-free. Her moans, the way her body arched, how close we came to letting it all go.
“Point taken,” I mutter, but it comes out rough, like it scrapes something raw inside me.
