“I keep thinking about the other night,” he says. Not looking at me. Looking at the valley.
“At the Railhead?”
“Yeah.” He turns to face me. In the starlight, his features are all in contrast: jaw, brow scar, the dark warmth of his eyes. “I keep thinking about you walking out afterward. And I keep thinking about how I couldn’t sleep. Haven’t been sleeping much since.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“It’s an observation.” He steps closer. “I don’t do this, Willow. The talking. The coffee. The inviting a woman to a pack function. I don’t…” He stops. Regroups. “Something about you doesn’t let me walk away. And I’ve been trying.”
“Maybe you should try harder.”
“Maybe I should.” But he doesn’t step back. “Or maybe I should stop trying and find out what happens.”
The space between us is warm and shrinking and charged with the same current that pulled us together at the Railhead. My wolf is pressing forward, demanding, insistent. My nipples have tightened against my shirt, and I’m wet. The admission would humiliate me if I were capable of feeling anything beyond the want.
He’s closer now. I can feel his breath. His eyes drop to my mouth, and the look is so explicit I feel it between my legs.
“This is still a bad idea,” I whisper.
“I know.”
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in.
The kiss is different from the Railhead. Not frantic… hungry. His hands frame my face, tilt my head, and he kisses me with a thoroughness that makes my knees go weak. I press against him and feel him hard through his jeans, and the evidence of how much he wants me makes me grind my hips forward.
“Not here,” I manage. “Your pack—”
“My truck. End of the row.”
Chapter 12
Willow
We make it to the truck. Barely. His mouth is on my neck as we walk, and my hand is in the back pocket of his jeans. We’re not being subtle, and I don’t care.
The back seat of a truck is not built for this. It’s cramped, and I bang my knee on the door handle, and he hits his head on the roof. Neither of us stops. The urgency has stripped away anything as civilized as logistics.
I yank his shirt over his head. His chest is beautiful—tanned, hard, all lean muscle and taut rippling skin. I start at the base of his throat and then go lower. Kiss his chest, his ribs, drag my tongue along the ridge of muscle above his belt, and feel him suck in a breath. His hand tangles in my hair. Not pushing. Holding on.
My shirt goes next. His hands cup my breasts through my bra, and I shove it up myself because his pace isn’t fast enough. His mouth closes over my nipple, and I make a sound that wouldembarrass me if I had room for anything except the heat of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth.
“I want to feel you,” I say, back arching as I press his face closer to my breast. I groan, low and throaty as his breath heats my skin. I fumble with the button of his jeans, and he lifts his hips to help me.
We strip in the cramped space—elbows and knees and cursing as denim catches on boots. Then he’s between my legs in the half-dark, and the windows are already fogging. I can feel the head of his cock nudging against me, hot and thick, and my whole body clenches with want.
“I need you inside me,” I tell him, because I’m past the point of subtlety. I wrap a hand around his shaft, guiding him along my slick entrance.
He hisses as he pushes in. Slow. The stretch of him filling me, inch by inch, has my breath catching in my throat. He’s big—bigger than the angle at the Railhead let me feel—and the fullness of him seated deep is almost too much. Almost.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my hair. “You feel—”
“Move. Please. Move.”
He moves. Rolling his hips, pulling back, driving in deep. The truck rocks on its suspension. I wrap my legs around him and match his rhythm, and the wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the cab—slick, obscene, undeniable.
“Harder,” I whisper. “I can take it.”
He gives me harder. His hands grip my hips, and the pace shifts from deliberate to relentless, each thrust driving the air from my lungs. The angle is deep enough to hit a spot that makes my eyes roll back. I dig my nails into his back—too hard, drawing lines—and he groans and fucks me harder for it.