Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He cocks his head to the side. Shadows fall across his face, making it hard to concentrate. “You think this is funny?” He tugs at his bottom lip with his top teeth. “Because I promise you, there’s nothing funny about it.”

I clear my throat, trying hard not to laugh again. “Absolutely. You’re right. Nothing funny at all.”

As we settle, my heartbeat picks up the pace. Dane draws his gaze down my body. A trail of fire is left in its wake as his eyes hood. The greens darken, the gold flecks all but gone. He takes a step toward me.

“Dane . . .” I take a step backward.

“Neely.” He moves toward me again.

My breathing becomes ragged as the air heats between us. A spot in the center of my stomach begins to wind tighter and tighter, causing my blood to pulse faster and faster.

I keep moving backward until I hit the wall. The wood doesn’t give. There’s nowhere to go. Dane stalks toward me like a man on a mission, and I’m the treasure at the end.

Pressing up on the balls of my feet, my hands fisting at my sides, I have about two seconds to decide what to do. The closer he gets, the more damp my skin becomes and the more my lips part, wanting to be kissed.

He plants his hands on either side of my head. I can smell his testosterone, feel the energy rippling off his body. He looks at me with a bridled lust on the brink of breaking.

Screw it.

I lift my chin. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

He starts to smile but stops himself. “Are you sure?”

“Seriously?”

“I’m warning you—I think my self-restraint when it comes to you is tapped out.”

My hands shake as I bring them to his face. “Well, that’s good because I don’t have any more either.”

I get a blip of my favorite grin before he kisses me so hard my head rocks back against the wood. My hands run down his chest, over the length of his sides, and on to the small of his back.

His lips taste sweet, his mouth as hot as fire. Every lick of his tongue makes me moan a little louder. Each press of his hips into my belly makes me ache deeper.

He roams his palms over my body. Across my swollen breasts and down to the top of my groin, he brushes his touch everywhere he can without breaking our kiss.

“Damn. You,” he groans.

I nip his bottom lip and am rewarded with a deep, throaty growl. Every insecurity and possible thought about stopping this is gone.

I’m all in.

Digging at the waistband of his jeans, I fumble with the button. His eyes fly open as he realizes what I’m doing.

“You sure?” he asks as he plants kisses over the side of my face.

“Does it seem like I’m sure?” I laugh, tilting my head to the side.

He kisses from my ear to the hollow of my throat. My fingers fly against the button and work the zipper down. He gasps as I dip my fingers into the front of his boxers and feel his hardened shaft against my hand.

His eyes shine as he pulls away.

“When did you become a little minx?” He laughs, lifting the hem of my shirt. The material goes over my head and sails into the darkness.

“It’s hard to pinpoint a specific time,” I tease. I shove his pants down to his ankles. “Although this one night in the Bronx, on top of the—”

He swallows the words from my lips, halting my story. “I don’t want to hear about it. Now take off your pants.” He removes his shirt, his chest and abs on full display. They’re hard and defined but not overdone by hours in the gym. They’re cut from lifting wood and hammering nails all day. It’s perfect.

Kicking off my flip-flops, I shimmy out of my shorts. “You asked. I was wrong, though. It wasn’t the night in the Bronx.” My shorts end up in a pile next to his pants on the floor. “It was in Manhattan.”

“My goal tonight,” he says, grabbing my ass, “is to make you forget about Manhattan.”

I lick my lips. “You have your work cut out for you, buddy.”

He peels my panties down my legs and then pins me to the door. He lifts me up. My legs lock around his waist. The door scratches at my back, the wood rough against my skin.

His cock presses against my opening. I can feel the heat between our bodies and my wetness coating the inside of my thighs. His hands, rough and gritty from the wood he works with all day, free my breasts from my bra so they sit on top of the underwire.

“Good lord, Neely,” he grumbles.

He takes one nipple in his mouth, sucking it gently between his teeth. The other is rolled between thick fingers. Each sensation is another douse of gasoline on the already flaming inferno in my gut.