“Why aren’t you touching me?” he murmurs, lips brushing over my hot cheeks, tongue darting out. “Mmm. Not flour, sugar.”
“Because”—kiss—“they’re covered”—sigh—“in pie crust.” Nip and suck. I drag his thick bottom lip back with me, playfully, before releasing it. He growls deep in his chest, the rumble passing through me. Grabbing my right hand, he licks dough off my fingers. Heat curls low in my stomach, need exploding.
“Good—”
“Oh, God!” I gasp.
“What?” he asks, eyes going wide, reverie broken.
“The crust has raw eggs in it. If you get?—”
His laugh cuts me off. “Farm fresh eggs from our own flock. It’ll be fine.”
“No,” I say, breaking his hold, beelining to the sink to wash my hands. They tremble against the water, not from fear but temptation.
He stabs his fingers into his thick, burnished gold hair. “Keep saying ‘no’ every time I kiss you, and I’m bound to get a complex.” But he says it lightly, teasing. Like he knows how much I need him.
I dry my hands on a kitchen towel, throat thick with anticipation. He grabs an apple slice, takes a bite, then closesthe distance, feeds it to me. Sweet, tart. I lick the juice from his finger, and he freezes, face drained of color.
“God, Pepper, you set my soul ablaze.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?” I whisper, so thirsty for another kiss I can barely speak.
Anson dives into me again, all hot breath and panting. Lips, tongues, need boiling through my veins. Hands in my hair, then palming my cheeks, gentle, reverential, and recklessly close to unhinged. Like the man—a breathing contradiction I can’t get enough of. His gray eyes are hooded when he pulls back, storming, electricity in his touch.
“Don’t want to rush,” he says, face conflicted. “But I like this. I likeus.”
“I do, too, more than I should.”
“That a bad thing?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.
The corners of my mouth tilt up, eyes still brazenly stuck on his kissable lips. They taste like peace, security, and the throb of danger.
He steps back, reading me, giving me room. Intuitive, conscientious, like one of his hot-house plants.
A silence settles, sweet and thick as honey. The fire pops, flour dust hangs like snow, and the smell of baked apples makes the cabin feel like the safest place on earth. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the low hum of the oven.
He looks at me like a man trying to memorize warmth—like he’s afraid it might vanish if he blinks. And maybe I am, too. Because for all the uncertainty waiting beyond these walls, this—us—feels like the calm before a storm.
He draws a slow breath, voice gravel. “Tough to be in the same room with you—excruciating torture.”
“A farmer and a poet.”
“Not like you. I looked you up on the internet last night. Read some of your articles.” He swallows hard. “You’re too good for me. So talented, gifted. The way you describe things, like I can feel them to the marrow of my bones.”
“What I described before is nothing like being here,” I confess, voice soft as the smell of vanilla and cinnamon rising from the oven. A whole new palette, with colors previously unknown. I want to paint this world into life, raw, aching, immortal.
“So, your stay here,” he says low in his throat. “Is good for your career?”
“Yes, and my heart.”
He grabs my hand, pressing it over his chest where I register the beat. Steady, strong, something I can count on. “Want you to think about staying … after you’re done with the story.” His eyes are warm, determined.
Chapter
Nine
LACEY
