Chapter 20 #2
I wrap my arms around him, hugging him tight. He has hard muscles and warm touches. “I’m glad you didn’t.” Resting my chin on his chest, I ask, “Do you want to go into the house to take a shower?”
He glances back as if debating his options. “No. As long as you don’t mind me being a mess.”
Laughing, I slip from his hold and give him a twirl. “I have no room to speak.”
“Sorry about the dress getting ruined.” As if his words cued the weather gods, the rain starts pouring down again. I’m glad we’re under a roof and protected this time.
“Me too.” I look down at the skirt of stained brown with some green grass streaks throughout. “It was my mother’s. It’s too far gone to save.” I take his hand and lead him to a wooden ladder my eldest brother made years ago.
Tagger eyes the ladder leading up to the loft area. “What’s up there?”
“I’ve been doing a renovation here and there. It’s not much, and there are no walls, but I have bottled water and a place to wait out the storm.”
The right side of his smile lifts first as if he knows I’m up to no good. It was never a plan to seduce someone in the loft of the barn, but now that the opportunity has arisen, I’m not opposed or beneath begging. At least not with Tagger. “Come on.”
I climb up, with him waiting until I’m securely at the top. Probably best since the ladder wasn’t made for durability or adults but instead for convenience and kids. When he gets to the top and steps off, he smiles. “You did all this?”
“My brothers and I used to play up here.” I walk across the wooden planks as if to prove it’s safe. “A few summers ago, I needed something to occupy my mind instead of the death of my mom.”
“So you come here to read?”
His smile is small but sincere as he comes toward the far corner where I’ve set it up.
He touches the soft pink bookcase and kneels to see the titles on the shelves.
“There are only two shelves, but these are some of my favorite books.” He glances up at me hovering over his shoulder.
“A few of Mom’s books are in there, too. ”
When he stands, he looks at the white wicker chair and then at the mattress covered in pillows. Some are in bags, and some I don’t care about as much and left out. I rush around to pull some out of the protective bags, explaining, “I don’t want them to get bugs.”
“Makes sense.” He takes one out of a bag, eyeing the shape. “This goes on the chair?”
“Yes.” I don’t know why I suddenly feel shy and embarrassed. But the feeling reaches my cheeks, heating them. I pull a sheet and blanket from the biggest bag and toss them on the bed.
He sets the pillow on the wicker and reaches for the sheet. “You do this every time you come up here?”
“I don’t come up here often enough to keep the bed made up. There’s no heat in the cold months, and I can’t bring a space heater up here. It would catch the barn on fire. In the dead of summer, I’d be sweating. No fan could save me.”
He tucks the sheet’s second corner around the mattress. “So spring, April and May, are the months you use it?” Every question is asked with such care and not one ounce of judgment.
I shrug. “Sometimes November and into December. You know how unpredictable those months can be weather-wise.”
With the sheet on, he comes to stand next to me as I release the blanket in front of me and lay it in place. As if the conversation is a distraction to his purpose, he runs his hand along my neck while staring at my mouth. “Texas can never make up its mind if it wants to be fall or winter.”
He’s so close I can feel his breath coat my temple.
The heat emanating through the wet shirt warms me, but it’s the way his eyes are so focused on my mouth that I shiver under his touch.
Bending down, he presses his lips to mine unhurried.
And when he opens his eyes, he says, “Do you have a towel up here?”
I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of what in the world he’s talking about. He must sense it because he grins. “To clean up so we don’t dirty your pretty bed.”
“Oh,” I say, relieved, though I’m not sure why I was worried.
It’s not like he’s a serial killer. At least, I doubt he is.
I hope he’s not . . . I eye him once more.
Feeling confident he’s not, I put that outrageous thought to bed, much like what he wants to do with me, which I’m all for.
“I have a few napkins. I spill when I eat.”
That makes his smile grow. “Huh. Um, I don’t think that’s going to help in this situation.” He looks me over. “We should get you out of that dress.”
“I like that idea.” There’s been no pretense of my wanting to have sex with him. I’ve thrown myself at him, and the memory of how good he felt in the truck has gotten me off a few times on my own. We can just move forward with the understanding that it’s clearly on the table.
So why do I suddenly feel insecurity clawing its way back up my throat?
Tagger’s an experienced man. Not like I’m a virgin but I’m not sure whether the hole has closed up. It’s been that long.
He pulls off his shirt first, like the gentleman he is.
Looking around, he drapes it over one part of the loft with a railing.
His boots come off next and the socks. Not exactly the sexy part of this strip show, but necessity beckons.
I start to settle in, loose at the knees but straight back like my mom taught me. Chest out. “I hope I’m next.”
“I’m going to take my sweet time with you.”
Why does everything he says shoot right between my legs? I know this one by heart. Tagger Grange. Those two words say everything.
He peels his wet jeans off next and tosses them onto the railing before setting his sights on me and my dress. “You look so pretty it almost hurts to think about when I’m in New York.”
“You keep saying things like that, and you’ll have to pick me up off the floor.”
“I don’t mind picking you up, Pris. I only care what put you there.” Reaching to touch my cheek, he kisses me. “I want to be with you.”
“Me, too,” I reply, running the tips of my fingers over his abs. “All you need to do is help me with this dress and my boots and—”
“Not sexually.” He shakes his head, clenching his eyes closed and rubbing his forehead.
When he reopens them, he’s more determined than ever.
“No, I want you sexually, too, but I want us to date. It sounds so fucking old-fashioned, but I don’t want to just be someone you fuck or mess around with when I’m in town.
I want us to be together. I want us to be a couple. ”
I have to lift my jaw off the floor before I speak, but my mind hasn’t fully processed what he’s saying. Hope flourishes. “You want to be my boyfriend?”
Holding my hand, he flips it over and doodles on my palm with his finger.
“Yeah, I want to be your boyfriend.” There’s an uncertainty in his tone that I can only interpret as him fearing rejection.
“I didn’t text because I didn’t know how you’d take that or if I was assuming too much. You might have felt the same.”
“I didn’t want you to feel pressure from me.”
“I was missing you the entire time.”
My heart beats proudly in my chest, and five steps in front of my indecisive brain, and is ready to sign on the dotted line.
“I’ve thought about you every day but tried so hard to let you go, to let you lead the life you’ve chosen elsewhere.
” It would be so easy to just jump in heart first, but then rationale kicks in. “You live in another state.”
“We’ll make it work. I promise. We’ll visit each other. I can fly you up anytime you can get away. I’ll fly here regularly.”
I want to be with him. It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life, but my judgment is as clouded as the sky is outside.
Am I caught up in storms and distracted by incredible abs, aroused because we’re finally standing on the verge of being fully together, and timid that beyond our bodies, we’ll be exposing our souls?
I’m wrapped so tight in a myriad of emotions that the weight is almost smothering.
As I look into his eyes, it’s not about making him feel better.
It’s about making sure this is the right decision for both of us.
It only takes a moment of swimming in his dreamy greens to know what I should do.
For me. “I want to be with you, too. Sexually,” I say, smirking.
He sports his own roguish grin in reaction. “And dating. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
I’m embraced in his arms and kissed in a way that might not be legal in this state. They can take me away in handcuffs before I ever stop kissing this man. Except now to say, “Make love to me, cowboy.”