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“Goddamn. That ass was sculpted to wear a pair of wranglers.”
He’s got that look about him. You know, the one that says he’s bad for your health, and your heart.”
It’s when they’re talking about this—about hot guys—that I turn into a flushed-cheeked, tongue-tied disaster that I gotta do my best to hide.
the guy isn’t bad-looking. The lower half of his face is all I catch before my eyes slide lower. Scruffy, worn black jeans, faded along the thighs. Tattoos. Rust red check pattern shirt rolled at the elbows.
back of his hand. They stand out, prominently highlighted by the warm glow of the fire. An inked design of a rose covers the skin there,
twenty-eight.
his mess of dark curls.
My goddamn stepbrother.
Zeke Rainer. Raine.
Mom married his father when I was twelve years old.
The first thought that crossed my mind when I found out my ex had hooked up with my father? Relief.
Was I objectively looking at the guy’s ass in a pair of jeans? Seeing his figure—before I caught a glimpse of his face—I felt more excitement thrumming in my veins than at the prospect of talking to Jessie.
I thought my own stepbrother was hot. Fuck. My. Life.
I’ve kissed exactly one guy, one time. I gave in to a flirtatious look and a moment standing so close I could taste the mint on his breath. When he shoved me backward, hands fisted in my shirt, and lips touching mine, something came alive inside me. I’ve never felt anything like those sparks replacing my blood, or that tingling sensation coating my mouth like sugar crystals. Of all times and places, in a darkened garage, between a deep freeze and a shelf full of tools, I learned more about myself than I had in two decades.
five years between us,
my stubble and scattering of early grays popping through.
That blue-eyed, blond-headed idiot really had to be here in Crimson Ridge, didn’t he?
It’s bad enough I’m trying to figure out who I am and my sexuality.
Then why am I stuck, boots cemented in place, while the back of my neck glows red hot, and I can’t stop looking at his tattooed forearms?
The boy with the blue eyes, blond head of hair, and boundless charm.
“I think I’m into guys.” It blurts out of me. The thing I don’t know if I should say, but have no hope in hell of stopping. “I think I’m . . . I might be gay.”
“I kissed someone. Well, more like he kissed me, and I had no interest in stopping it because I felt like I was going to climb outta my skin if he didn’t put me out of my misery and do it.”
A hand covered in ink shoots out. My jaw hangs wide as I watch the glowing cigarette get ripped from the guy’s mouth. Followed by a heavy boot coming down to stomp it into the dirt.
Hehe raine is jealous
my grunt comes out gritty and forceful. “He’s got asthma, you shit for brains.”
Kept seeing the defined veins on his hands, standing out like a map beneath the crowned skull he’s got on his right hand, and the vintage-style rose on the other.
I get a look at his ass when he bends down. As he straightens back up, I feel it . . . something curls, hot and tight, right down low in my stomach. Oh, fuck no.
I don’t need to be popping random boners and having sudden urges to jerk off, all because of a guy I can’t stand being around.
Christ, what I don’t need to be doing is appreciating the way he looks in my clothes. He’s wearing my t-shirt, the one I gave him that day at the hospital, and I hate the sensation it kicks up in my stomach.
Kayce’s gaze wavers for the faintest moment; his eyes flicker down to my mouth, then back up, going wide real fucking fast.
And then I see it. My eyes lock on the tiniest of details, but it’s one that tips my world off its axis all the same.
He’s got his cap on backward. As soon as I notice it flipped around, my stomach swoops in a dramatic swan dive. A fluttering occupies my chest, and oh my fucking god, this cannot be happening.
Hehe sloot for a backwards cap
I allow myself to fully fantasize about a guy for the very first time.
I have to swallow back a whole lot of inappropriate goddamn thoughts when my eyes track down, noticing the way his top has lifted with the movement. The soft fabric has hitched up to reveal one side of his stomach.
snowflake.”
citrus tinge mingled with a woodsy scent
Kayce is damn near panting, his chest rising and falling in time with his quickening breaths. And goddamn it, but something awakens inside me at having him timid and trembling like a leaf beneath me.
Flattening my body against the wall, he forces our hips together. I whimper. I fucking whimper.
“Use your words, Kayce.”
“Don’t make me beg.”
“Maybe I like that,”
“Maybe I’m an asshole who likes it when you’re timid and shaking.”
“What a pretty thing you are when you blush for me,” he murmurs, and I nearly combust on the spot at the way that turns me inexplicably and confusingly to absolute stone.
All I can think and feel and goddamn breathe is him.
“The little Crimson Ridge golden boy, stammering and blushing for me. Not so cocky now, huh?”
“Raine . . . just, please, wait . . .”
I dive against his lips.
FINALLY A KISS!!!!!!!
Kayce makes a sobbing little moan straight into my mouth, and that noise—that intoxicating sound, like a purr of relief—twists me and drives me to go harder, deeper, and goddamn own him.
Kayce straight-up moans for me when I squeeze a little tighter, collaring him just below his jaw. Beneath my fingers, his pulse is absolutely hammering in the side of his throat.
That noise . . . that fucking noise. He has no idea what it does to me.
“All shy now, hmm?” I scold him. “Haven’t got anything to say for yourself?”
