Chapter 40 #2
“Hungry?” He grins as he passes me a plate.
“You’re such a tease.” I snatch the plate.
He chuckles, pulling the cork from the wine bottle with a soft pop.
For someone who is insistent on not touching me, he takes every opportunity to do just that.
He pours the wine, and as he hands me a glass, his fingers brush mine. He eases a slice of cornbread on my plate, his fingers finding mine under the edge of the plate, and holding it there for a beat. Long enough to make me debate mounting him right here for the ride of his life.
Then he cracks open a small jar of creamy coleslaw, and as he spoons a portion beside the cornbread, his fingers skim mine again. Slower, like he’s testing how much electricity he can build with just a touch.
It’s a dynamite level.
“You’re doing that on purpose.” I look at him over the rim of my wine glass.
“Doing what?” The crooked smile tugging at his mouth betrays him.
Each simple contact sends warmth spiralling through me.
He unscrews the lid off a glass jar of honey—thick, golden, and almost glowing in the filtered sunlight. He dips a spoon in slowly, letting it swirl until it catches a heavy ribbon of the sticky syrup.
“Now the real magic.” His voice is low and warm.
He leans forward and holds the spoon just above my slice of cornbread. We watch the honey cascade down in a slow, glistening stream. The sweet scent hits me immediately, mixing in with everything that is Hart.
As he moves the spoon across my plate, a drop lands on the side of my index finger.
“Oops.”
My lips part. “Oops?”
“My hand slipped.”
“Uh-huh.”
His gaze drops to my finger, and then flicks back to my face. Quiet. He lifts my hand—slowly and deliberately—and brushes his thumb across my wrist, warm and steady.
The action has me trembling.
Without breaking eye contact, he bends forward and kisses the drop of honey.
Steady.
Unhurried.
His lips are hot against my skin. Then, slowly, he runs his tongue over my finger, tasting it from the base of my finger to the tip in one smooth motion, and back again. By the time he pulls back, I’m barely breathing, and my pulse thrums.
“Sweet,” he says. “But still not as delicious as you.” His voice is playful with a hint of something underneath.
Something deep.
Something simmering.
Something that tastes like danger and desire on the same breath.
I give a short, breathless laugh. “That’s not how most people eat honey.”
He grins, still holding my hand. He traces his thumb across my palm now, like he’s mapping every line.
“Good thing I’m not most people.”
My heart thuds so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
He kisses my hand before leaning back. With one knee bent, he rests his elbow, while the other leg folds closer to the ground, keeping him steady and relaxed.
“I don’t remember you being this smooth.” I pick up my fork.
“I was smooth.”
I snort. “You were arrogant. Thought the quarterback title entitled you to everything and anyone you wanted.”
He takes a bite. It’s just a bite. One bite. So why does it feel like he’s undressing me with his teeth?
“I only ever wanted you.” And the way his jaw flexes when he chews should not be legal at a picnic. “And a two-level library.”
“Two-level library?”
He nods. “Cozy and country-style library with a spiral staircase leading up to a second floor filled with books, old leather chairs, and a reading nook.”
I smile as he drags me back to our dream home.
“The walls are lined with bookshelves made from—”
“Reclaimed wood,” we say collectively.
“There has to be one of those old rolling ladders to reach the top shelves.” It’s every girl’s dream.”
He nods. “Absolutely, and an indoor horse stall. Did you know that’s a thing now?”
“I didn’t. Tell me more.”
And he does.
He expands detailing how our future barn isn’t separate from the house. The idea thrills me, especially given my love of horses. With a sunroom off the living room featuring tall windows that overlook the stalls, we will be able to sit with our morning coffee and watch our horses.
He describes a hallway made entirely of glass, wood underfoot, leading from the kitchen to the tack room.
He discusses custom ventilation systems, as if he has conducted a thorough analysis of the structure, and the special insulation seals everything, making it safe. The scent of hay and horses never drifts into the bedrooms, but still, they’re close.
Right there. Part of the house.
He says it as if it’s obvious, as if it’s of course we’d build it that way. Like, of course, he remembers how I always wanted to keep my horses in my home. What eighteen-year-old doesn’t?
And I sit here, listening to this man sketch out a life with me, in architecture and sawdust and sunlight, and realize this isn’t just his dream.
It’s ours.
And every aspect he’s created has always included me.
It’s so easy to talk to him, just like I remember. And we continue long after we’ve eaten, keeping this distance between us because we know one touch and neither of us will have restraint.
But when we start gathering the empty plates and crumpled napkins into the picnic blanket, his hands are grazing and touching again.
“Are you trying to turn this cleanup into a contact sport?” I joke, watching him snag my hand as I reach for a plate.
He grins, holding my fingers just a second too long. “If it’s a sport, I’m aiming for gold.”
“You’re definitely winning Most Persistent Tease.”
When I pull my arm away, he catches my chin with rough, warm fingers and drags me close to him. I practically crawl to him on all fours.
“I think we make a pretty good team.” His eyes dart to my mouth.
“Do you now?”
“I do.”
I smile. “Then I guess I should let you know you’ve got a little something here.” I run my finger over my chin.
“Here?” He runs his finger over the stubble on his jaw.
I shake my head.
“Here?” His hand runs down his throat.
“Just wait.” I pull away, hating being away from his touch.
I riffle through the basket for what I want and fold a napkin around it.
“Sit.” I press my hand against his chest, forcing him to his ass.
Before he can object, not that he would, I slip onto his lap, swinging my leg over his side and straddling him.
“Anything you say.” His hand comes to rest on my hip, pulling me closer to him.
“Anything?”
He nods.
Our faces are inches apart, breaths mingling.
And then—
He kisses me.
The moment his lips touch mine, everything stills and sharpens at the same time. His lower lip brushes mine first. A light, tentative sweep that sends a ripple straight through my stomach. A little uncertain at first, like he still can’t believe this is real.
I can’t believe this is real.
How many nights did I dream of this exact moment and waking up hating that dream while secretly enjoying every moment?
I lean in, kissing him back, and taste the faint salt on his skin, the clean warmth of him, like sun and sweat and breath all wrapped up in one dizzying pull.
The kiss isn’t rushed. Not frantic. Just deep and slow, like we both can’t get enough.
His fingers twitch at my hips. I feel it—his flicker of restraint. My palms slide down the fabric over his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles under the silly T-shirt.
His tongue brushes the seam of my lips with such restraint it almost undoes me—a whisper of touch, patient but wanting.
When the kiss deepens, he presses harder, fuller, coaxing a low sound from my throat I didn’t know I could make. The taste of him is intoxicating. And I feel the rise of his breath, the way his chest expands as he draws me closer.
His hands move.
Slowly at first. Tracing upward over the curve of my waist, sliding along the small of my back.
I shiver.
I can’t help it.
His lips move against mine with quiet urgency, like he needs this more than air—needs me.
His hand leaves my body entirely, and for a breathless moment, I miss it, until it finds my face. Then his palm cradles my cheek, fingers curling just behind my ear—his thumb brushes along my jaw, then over the edge of my mouth.
His other arm stays wrapped around me, keeping me pressed to him, like letting me go isn’t even an option anymore.
His tongue delves deeper, his fingers dragging through my scalp until he’s cupping the back of my head. Our tongues tangle, primal and instinctual.
His hips move in a silent plea for more, and my body aches with want; every nerve ending is alive, and every breath is a reminder of just how much I crave him.
His lips trail down my jawline, his breath hot against my skin, and his teeth graze my earlobe in a way that makes me gasp.
“Tell me what you want.” His husky command sends a jolt of heat through me.
I tilt my head back, my eyes fluttering closed as his lips brush my neck.
“I want you,” I whisper. “But I want to take my time. I want to taste you. Feel you. Worship you.”
His hands slide down, cupping my ass, lifting me slightly as he presses me closer. “Then take me,” he growls, his voice thick with need. “Take everything.”
I shift, my knees bracketing his hips as I settle more fully on him. His hardness presses against my core, and I rock my hips subtly.
The tease makes him groan.
His hands grip my thighs, his fingers digging into my skin as he urges me closer.
“Take off your shirt.” I bite his earlobe, then lean back.
As he pulls his shirt off his broad shoulders in one quick motion and tosses it to the ground, I reach for the honey jar. I think I’m so smart until my eyes drift down his bare chest.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. He’s all lean muscle and bronzed skin. His bruises are darkening already, and there’s something so real about him. He’s not polished or posed, just raw strength under skin dusted with coarse hair and subtle shadows.
My fingers ache to touch him.
He reaches for me, as if I’m so far away, even straddling him. But he halts when he spots the honey I hold between us.
The way he eyes it, dark, almost angry, is a turn on.
I twist off the lid.
“Jade—” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I dip my finger inside, swirling it slowly before lifting the dripping trail.
“Jade—”
My hand doesn’t make it anywhere near his chest when his hand shoots out and grasps my wrist. “I can’t.”