I have to know. I will die if I don’t. But it can’t be here, not at this kitchen table where we cleared the plates from pot roast.
Standing so quickly from the table that Zoey gasps a breath, I grab her hand. “Come with me,” I say in my most firm, demanding, bossy voice. My suspicion about how much she likes that voice is correct, because Zoey’s eyes go all hazy and heavy-lidded.
If I don’t hurry, the kiss will be a kitchen kiss. And I have other plans, so I rush her toward the back door and out into the night.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gavin
We’re moving too slowly. I’m already being a caveman, so I bend to scoop Zoey up and toss her over my shoulder.
“Gavin!” Zoey squeals, the sound so unlike her that I smile big enough that my cheeks ache. Running with her weight throwing off my balance is difficult. But I work out on a rigid schedule. And it feels like every dumbbell lifted, every tractor tire thrown, every mile I’ve run has prepared me for this exact moment.
“What are you—where are we going? Gavin!”
I love the breathy way she says my name as she slaps ineffectually at my back. Her hands pause a little in between her swatting, like she’s learning the topography under my shirt.
My little cartographer, I think, knowing even as I do that my mind has cracked. I’m a total mess of a man, brought to this state by the woman currently trying to hide the fact that she’s feeling up my back.
“Do you want me to put you down?” My voice is dark and dangerous, a threat whispered cutting through the darkness.
“No,” she whispers, and I pick up my pace.
When we reach the door of the barn, I roll it open with such force that it skitters a little along the track. Just like me, thrown off the rails.
I don’t turn on the light, but instead march forward in the dim glow of moon shining through the stall windows. Slowing to a languid pace, I’m aware of Zoey’s body against me in a way I wasn’t while running.
Her bare legs under my palm. Soft curves pressed tightly to me. Her hands rest on my lower back, clutching the material of my shirt.
The tack room door is unlocked, and I duck my body a little to keep Zoey from hitting the doorframe. One black eye from me is quite enough, thank you.
I draw in a breath, bending my knees a little and shifting to let her slide down to standing. Slowly, meticulously, with such great care. I’m like a museum worker, handling some delicate artifact. Setting a perfect gold ring on a silk pillow, perfectly illuminated and ready to be admired for its beauty.
The room is dusty, but the smell of worn leather overpowers the other, less pleasant barn smell. Zoey is wobbly on her feet, and her hands find my waist.
I’m hot, but not feverish. I would know. I’m molten, a quivering, bubbling inferno of liquid fire underneath my skin. I feel my nostrils flare as Zoey blinks up at me in the darkness, so sweet and innocent that I can hardly stand it.
Steady, I remind myself. Control. You brought her here for a kiss. Just. A. Kiss.
With every ounce of discipline I have, I place my hands on her hips. Then I begin to carefully crowd her back. The gentle pressure from my hands and the intensity of my gaze guide her until she’s flat against the wall, next to a bank of saddles. We’re in a hidden and shadowy corner of an already dark room.
I’ve saved this space for her. This is one fantasy, one indulgence, I allowed myself to have of Zoey over the years. Because it was too fantastical to believe.
If I had imagined kissing her in the elevator or my office, I might have snapped one day and actually done it. This spot was safe. Perfect. And I have gone over it in my mind enough times that I have no hesitation.
Zoey’s lips part, and her eyes flutter closed as I bend my face toward her. I bypass her tempting mouth for her neck, running the tip of my nose up along her pulse-quickened vein.
So much better than I imagined.
There’s her smell, which is vanilla and cinnamon, spicy yet sweet. She’s mulled cider in winter, delicious, warm comfort. Mixed with the strong scent of leather and wood,