Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

That’s what I’m afraid of.

“What’s that look about?” he asks.

“What look?”

“That one.” He points at my face. “The one that looks like you were ready to cry.”

“I was just thinking about cycles and predictability and how I hope I don’t try blue eye shadow again.”

His laugh is free and loud. He leans back again, the stress melted away from his shoulders. “I bet you look just as pretty with blue eye shadow on as you do now.”

“That’s a bet you’d lose, Mr. Gibson.”

“I can’t imagine you wearing anything and looking bad.”

I bask in his words, feeling the wash of power settling over my skin. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He bites his bottom lip as he takes me in. “Want to shed something for me?”

“What do you have in mind?” I ask, fluttering my lashes.

Resisting the urge to reach up and kiss him takes everything I have. I want to climb on top of him, inside him, surround myself with him in every way. My skin craves his hands on my body, my lips die for his mouth on mine. When he’s in control, all I can do is relax and feel a way I can feel with no one else.

Biting my lip, I wait impatiently so I don’t appear too needy.

He laughs. “Just come here, will ya?”

“I’ll think about it.”

He lunges towards me, knocking me on my back as I yelp into the evening air. My laughter fills the top of Bluebird Hill as Lance hovers over me.

Looking down intently, his chest matches the rise and fall of mine. He brushes a strand of hair out of my face as he studies me.

“Some people have to peel away their layers to get to the good stuff,” he says. “You’re already there.”

“Stop being so sweet,” I whisper. “It makes you irresistible.”

“I’m irresistible way before I kick in the sweet factor,” he teases.

I pretend to mull that over as he lowers his face to mine. Our mouths move together in an effortless, easy dance that distracts me until I can’t think of anything else.

Twenty-Four

Mariah

The lavender scented bath water laps against the sides of the tub caressing me. The candle I lit on the vanity flickers in a delicate sway. Shadows are cast against the white tile walls of my bathroom and I close my eyes and just breathe in the peacefulness.

Lance dropped me off a few hours ago. He walked me to the doorway and kissed me like it was the end of a date. Like there was a promise of more. Like tomorrow might have him pulling up beside the curb to see me again.

Even though I love his angular jawline and fiery eyes and funny sense of humor, what makes me feel the giddiest is the way he looks at me.

I run a hand from the base of my throat, between my breasts, and into the water. It skims over my rounded stomach. It’s a part of me I’ve always hated—the pooch, I call it. No number of crunches, sit-ups, or planks would rid me of the excess belly fat surrounding my belly button. Tonight, though, with my hand clasped over that area, the grimace I usually wear while touching that part of my body is gone.

In its place is a small smile as I think of Lance placing kiss after kiss on my navel as if it were the sexiest stomach he’d ever seen. I remember how he touches me in every possible place and does so almost reverently. How when he looks at me, it seems like he’s only seeing a beautiful woman and not all the flaws I see when I look in the mirror or put on a pair of jeans.

Now that I know Lance, he’s not what I expected. He’s somehow more than all his parts combined. He’s more than the sexy, intellectual from school and more than the alpha, quick-tongued womanizer from the dating app.

I don’t think I was quick to judge Lance Gibson. I just think, maybe even hope, I might’ve pegged him wrong.

Lance

The water is hot as it flows over my body with the shower head on its strongest setting. The spray pelts my skin on a selection that works well in the morning to wake me up but right now is just another uncomfortable annoyance for me to have to deal with.

The look in her eyes tonight was my own doing. She wouldn’t look at me like that if I would just leave her alone. I know the way it is when we’re together, there’s this intoxicating chemistry that I’ve never experienced with someone else. A connection I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen another two people have—it’s that good.

This isn’t lust. I could write a book on that. It’s not an obsession, either, or one of those situations where you want someone you know you can’t have. Been there, done that—on both the giving and receiving end. What exists between Mariah and me is altogether different.