Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

I gather myself and manage to hit the hole—golfing is dirty—in four strokes. The next hour or so is more of the same—the guys make dick jokes while we girls roll our eyes and proceed to kick t

heir asses on the green.

On the fourth green, there’s a series of ladders and slides that you have to get the ball up and over in order to complete the putt. Noah grows frustrated and slams his putter on the green. The head of the putter actually breaks, bounces off the green and strikes one of the miniature ladders.

“Here, have mine, tough guy,” Adam extends his putter.

Noah starts forward, his hands raised as if to try to strangle Adam.

Grace jumps forward. “I’m hungry, honey. Let’s go find some food and someone to fix this.”

“I’m hungry, too,” AnnMarie announces.

“Since when?” Bo asks.

“Since right now,” she insists. She drags the big man off the green toward the concession stand. Grace and Noah follow, leaving Adam and I standing beside the broken apparatus.

“Guess it’s just you and me,” I remark dryly.

“Looks like it.” There’s a husky note to his voice.

Surreptitiously I wipe my hands against my skinny jeans again. “Should we play on?”

“If you want.”

* * *

“Um, sure.” I walk off to the next green before I do something I regret.

Being near Adam—in the dark and without Davis around—is making me think dangerous thoughts. As in, if I move slightly to my left, I could be the one rubbing my boob against Adam’s perfectly muscled biceps. As in, if I lifted my hand, I could slide my fingers between his. As in, I could tuck myself under his arm, wrap my body around his and pull his gorgeous mouth against mine.

And no one would see. The tiny lights barely brighten the ground. The neon glow-in-the-dark balls emit no light. The only things on this course giving off any illumination are the targets.

Although I can’t see him, I’m more aware of Adam now than I ever have been. His clean, male scent—some kind of woodsy fragrance that beckons me to stick my nose in his neck to fully decipher all of its notes—fills my lungs. The air is so thick between us that I swear it’s almost as if he’s caressing me. I can hear his breathing, even and strong.

By the ninth hole, I’m a mess. My legs are weak, my heartbeat is worryingly fast, and I’m wishing I’d worn a bra with more padding, because I’m so turned on that my nipples are standing at attention. Good thing no one can see a damn thing.

Others are taking advantage of the dark. It’s nothing but scattered whispers, stolen kisses, and throaty purrs from people abandoning golf in favor of a different sort of game.

I wish I could snuff out all my senses, like midnight smothers the light to cut off my awkward feelings toward him. What had started out an enjoyable distraction has turned into annoying neediness.

“I don’t think our friends are coming back,” I note at the tenth hole.

“I think they probably found better things to do.” His voice is dark and rough.

Maybe he’s not so calm, either. There’s a harshness in his tone, a winded quality as if he’s back from his post-breakfast run. Sweaty, disheveled, and impossibly hot.

I find myself stepping off the faintly lit green to stand on a patch of AstroTurf. My sneakers sink into the ground. The denim of my jeans scrapes against my thighs, the seam of the crotch pressing against an ache between my legs.

My pulse points are alive. A flutter at my neck. Twin drums at my wrist. A reverberating echo in my center that thrums through my veins until my entire body feels lit up like a Christmas tree.

In this shadowed place, I’m more exposed than if I were on the beach at noon. I rub a shaky hand across my chest, my nipples straining in response to my own touch. My mind imagines Adam’s touch. His hands would be larger, rougher. Calluses have built up from years of holding the neck of his guitar. The pads of his fingers would abrade my skin in a wonderful, stomach-clenching way. His palm is more than large enough to engulf my breast.

A moan escapes my lips.

“Landry,” he say, the sound squeezed out of the back of his tight throat. He drops the putter and takes a step toward me.

I don’t move. I can’t. I remember what he first said when I stupidly confessed my crush.