Chapter 12
The cookout had wound down hours ago, but Channel couldn't stop touching her.
Small touches. A hand on her back as they walked to her cabin. Fingers brushing hers when she reached for the door. Nothing that crossed lines, nothing that demanded—but God, he wanted to demand.
"You don't have to walk me home," Reagan said, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant she was as affected as he was. "It's fifty feet from the fire pit."
"I know."
"So why are you here?"
"Because I'm not ready to stop looking at you yet."
She paused at her door, turning to face him. The porch light caught the flush on her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes. She'd been smiling all day—real smiles, not the careful ones she wore like armor—and every single one had hit him like a fist to the chest.
"You've been looking at me all night," she said.
"I've been looking at you since I walked into your store."
"That's—" She stopped, swallowed. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes me want things I shouldn't want."
Channel stepped closer. Not touching, but close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her skin. "What do you want, Reagan?"
"I want—" Her breath caught as he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I want you to stop being so careful with me."
"You think I'm being careful?"
"I think you've been treating me like glass since the bluff cabin. Like if you push too hard, I'll break."
"You're not glass." His hand slid from her hair to cup her jaw, tilting her face up. "You're the strongest woman I've ever met. That's not why I'm holding back."
"Then why?"
"Because when I have you—" His thumb traced her lower lip, and he felt her shiver. "It's not going to be because you're scared or grateful or running on adrenaline. It's going to be because you want me. Just me. Nothing else driving it."
"I want you right now."
The words hit him like a bullet. His whole body went tight, every instinct screaming at him to close the distance, take what she was offering, claim her the way he'd been dying to since that first night.
Instead, he leaned down and kissed her.
Slow. Deliberate. Showing her exactly how much control it was taking not to push her through that door and pin her to the nearest surface.
Reagan made a sound against his mouth—half moan, half frustration—and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss went from slow to desperate in a heartbeat, her tongue stroking his, her body arching into him.
Channel walked her backward through the door without breaking the kiss. Heard it swing shut behind them. Felt her hands yanking his shirt free of his jeans, her fingers skating across his stomach.
He groaned and caught her wrists, pinning them above her head against the wall.
"Channel—"
"I'm trying to be good here." His voice came out wrecked. "You're making it really fucking hard."
"I don't want you to be good." She strained against his grip, but he held firm. "I want you to be mine."
Something snapped in his chest. He released her wrists and his hands found her hips, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist automatically, and the contact—God, the contact—
He carried her to the bed and laid her down, following her, covering her body with his. She pulled at his shirt and he let her strip it off. Her hands mapped his chest, his ribs, the muscles of his back.
"You're beautiful," she breathed.
"That's my line."
He kissed down her throat, nuzzling aside the collar of her shirt, tasting her collarbone. She arched beneath him, her hips rolling up against his, and he saw stars.
"Reagan—" He pressed her hips into the mattress, stilling her. "You keep doing that and this is going to be over before it starts."
"Then let it start."
His hand slid under her shirt, palm flat against her stomach. She was trembling, her breath coming fast, her eyes fixed on his face with something that looked like wonder.
"I want you." She said it like a confession. "I've wanted you since the cabin. Since you gave me that lamp. Since you looked at me like I was worth something."
"You're worth everything."
"Then why are you still talking?"
He laughed—he couldn't help it—and pulled her shirt over her head. She was wearing a simple cotton bra, nothing fancy, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He lowered his mouth to the swell of her breast and felt her hands fist in his hair.
"Yes—"
His phone buzzed.
They both froze.
It buzzed again. And again. The particular pattern that meant compound emergency.
"No." Reagan's voice was desperate. "No, ignore it."
"I can't." The words tasted like ash. "That's the emergency signal."
"Channel—"
He pushed himself up on his arms, looking down at her. Flushed, panting, half-naked and gorgeous beneath him. Every cell in his body screaming at him to ignore the phone, to finish what they'd started.
But he was a prospect. And when the club called, he answered.
"I have to go."
"I know." She closed her eyes, her chest heaving. "I know you do."
He leaned down and kissed her—hard, promising, a preview of everything they were postponing.
"This isn't over," he said against her mouth.
"I'm starting to think we're cursed."
"Not cursed. Just—" He forced himself to pull away, to grab his shirt, to answer the buzzing phone. "Bad timing."
The message was from Cottonmouth. Gate check. Nothing major, but needed prospect presence.
Channel looked at Reagan, still sprawled on the bed, watching him with hungry eyes.
"Go," she said. "Do your prospect thing."
"Reagan—"
"I'll be here when you get back." Her smile was wicked, knowing. "But I might not be wearing this much."
He groaned. "You're trying to kill me."
"Just motivating you to hurry."
He walked out of that cabin with a hard-on that could cut glass and a promise burning in his chest. Tonight or tomorrow or whenever the universe stopped conspiring against them—he was going to have her.
And when he did, he wasn't letting go.