It had been a week since that kiss. A week of daydreaming about it. A week of missing him. He came over Sunday as promised, but he didn’t touch me. He was keeping his distance, and I respected that. On the other hand, I hated it. I hated it because Mason Langston, the rebel bull rider and cowboy, was the best kiss I’d ever had. Just like the storm in his eyes, he loomed over me and rained down promises of pleasure, pleasure I’d never felt. That man knew how to kiss. That man knew where to put his hands.
