Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) by Reinhardt, Liz (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

"You're a goddess."

He says it like a normal person would say, "Your dress is white."

A lazy-afternoon-sunshine glow unfurls low down between my hips and blooms up my spine, climbing fast and high as a magic beanstalk to my heart.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," I toss out so he won't sense how pathetically giggly I am, and I reach for the flowers, leaving his arms tulip-empty, pressing my face to the petals possessively. "For me?"

"Of course." His smile is sweet, but tired.

He stays outside the door while I find a vase in the hall cabinet and fill it with water from the powder room. "You can come in if you want," I tell him, but he just leans one shoulder on the doorframe and watches me set the pink blossoms out. "How was last night?"

"Long and aggravating."

He must have just shaved this morning, and I catch sight of a tiny nick on his jaw from the razor. His white button down is pressed and cuffed to the elbows, allowing the tattoo he shares with Remington to peek out. His grey pants are also pressed and neat.

"You look dapper today." I plump the tulips up one last time and make my way to him. The clover-clean, sharp smell of his skin makes my senses reel.

I want to touch him, to reconnect, but it's like what we had last night is a powerline that's been severed. All the electricity is still spitting and crackling, but I don't dare attempt to touch that kind of raw power.

He holds his hands out at his sides.

"Church duds. I ditched the tie and jacket, but I was in full dapper-mode this morning. My grandmother would pass out if we didn't wear suits every Sunday, heat be damned. And that old ass chapel has a busted air conditioner. I was sweating my ass off."

I'm about to say something about church or grandmothers or the lack of AC when he crosses right over the threshold and grabs me around the waist. One hand takes the small pair of pruning shears I'm still holding lightly in my fingers and sets them on the table, then his lips seal over mine, hot, fast, and famished.

The first moan rips out from low in his throat, and a hand curls behind the back of my head and presses my lips closer, giving his mouth the leverage to edge mine open and allowing the sweet heat of his tongue to swirl against mine. I knock into the small table the tulips sit on, splashing water everywhere.

Winch's kisses are sweet and quick with a desperate edge that makes me forget every detail of where we are and who might catch us because all I can think is more, him, need, yes.

As if he can read my mind, he has his arm wrapped around my waist and hoists me onto the table with no effort at all. I lean back, and he follows me forward, never breaking the contact of our mouths.

His hands fall flat to my knees and rest for one second, palms down, before they begin a slow and steady incline up along my thighs, up until his fingertips brush my hips and his thumbs rub over the tiny piece of silky fabric that makes up my sexy date underwear. His thumbs stroke once, three times, six or seven times before I'm squared in heaven and ready to let him do whatever he might possibly want to right in my grandparents' fancy foyer.

Maybe he really can read my mind, because the instant 'grandparents' foyer' jolts through my brain, his hands withdraw back to my knees, and his lips brush over mine in softer and softer sweeps until he's one inch too many away from me.

It takes us both a minute to catch our breath. His laugh is warm and low.

"So, that's pretty much what I've been thinking about since the minute I left your bed last night. You?"

I laugh back, breathless and high. "That, yeah. And more. Do you want to--"

He shakes his head and the decisiveness of the gesture halts my question. "Let me take you out somewhere. Away from here. Because I can't slow down if I start."

"I'm not looking for slow," I offer, but he holds a hand out and, gallantly, politely, helps me off the table where he was building me up to a perfect orgasm a few seconds before.

"Not in a rush. Not like this." His voice is at once sure and full of command, and apologetically pleading.

"So, if you're not planning to rock my world, what are we doing?"

He waits as I lock the door and holds my hand as we rush down the white stone stops. I love the hint of a smile he attempts to hide when we're face-to-face, feet balanced on the curb.

"Breakfast. And it will rock your world."

He holds my door open and helps me in, perfect gentleman style, and this date has all the unexpected newness and excitement our actual first date was lacking.

He pulls out and looks over at me, his hands curling over the steering wheel in a way that makes me think he's doing his best to keep them off of me. I roll the window down and Winch cuts the AC, delivering a satisfied smile my way.

"What's that about?" I ask.

"What's what about?" He smiles again, and there are a million secret thoughts I'm dying to unwind and reveal.

"The look you gave me just now." I point at him and close one eye, shaping my fingers like a gun. "I notice everything, mister."

"Or, like my mom, you think you see something when there's nothing there. My look was just a look."

He's still teasing me, but his voice drops from lighthearted to serious faster than pennies out of a hole in a pocket.

"Hmm. Maybe your mom and I need to have a talk."

This time the look is a real Look, a whole panicked, terrified, furious mix