EIGHT
We’re soaked – dripping, breathless and leaving a trail of questionable puddles as we stumble into Luke’s room.
The door clicks shut behind us, and then he’s on me – hands in my hair, mouth on mine, pulling me in like I’m oxygen and he’s been underwater for months.
His tongue slides against mine and I let out a noise I will never, ever be able to claim was anything other than a moan.
His shirt is wet, clinging, completely in the way – so I peel it off, slow and deliberate, savouring the way his muscles flex under my hands.
He goes for the strap of my dress, fingers sliding over damp skin, and then—
Panic.
Full-body, boob-taped, Spanx-wrapped panic.
I freeze, one hand flying to his wrist. ‘Wait.’
He stops instantly. His eyes search mine. ‘We don’t have to—’
‘No,’ I say quickly and smile, trying to channel my inner goddess and not the inner monologue that’s currently screaming, YOUR BOOBS ARE HELD UP WITH INDUSTRIAL-STRENGTH ADHESIVE. ‘Take your pants off. I’ll be right back.’
I dart into the bathroom, shut the door behind me and glimpse myself in the mirror.
Oh. Wow. Honestly? It could be worse. Make-up is smudged and the mascara has been washed away – mostly.
Lipstick a little faded, but we’ll call it post-kiss chic.
Hair? Chaotic, yes. But in a drowned siren way. We’re rolling with it.
I shimmy out of the dress and start wrangling the damp Spanx off my body.
They cling – oh, how they cling. ‘Why are you like this?’ I mutter, peeling myself out of them with the grace of a person escaping a wet sleeping bag.
I ball them up and hide them between the folds of my dress as if they’re contraband.
Now for the main event: boob tape.
I grab the edge and tug.
Nothing happens.
I tug again. Still nothing.
‘What sort of military-grade glue—’
‘You okay?’ Luke’s voice floats through the door, low and concerned.
‘Fine!’ I say brightly while internally sobbing.
I take a breath, brace myself and rip. I give a silent scream, then lean against the sink, breathing hard. One boob down. One to go.
I grab the second strip, count to three and rip. RIP nipples. There is no recovering from this. Emotionally or epidermally. This shit doesn’t happen to the princess of Genovia.
Still, there’s no time to dwell. Because on the other side of this door is a naked man with a jawline that could cut steel and a look in his eyes that says he wants me even if he doesn’t know why.
I square my shoulders, toss the tape in the bin and open the door.
Luke turns.
And we … stare.
He’s naked. Fully. No boxer briefs, no towel, only golden skin and muscles and zero awareness of what that image does to someone with unresolved daddy issues and freshly torn nipples.
His eyes land on me – also very naked, still slightly damp, hair a mess, skin flushed.
Neither of us moves.
He swallows once, slow. His voice is low and rough when he finally says, ‘You okay?’
I should be embarrassed. I should cover myself or make a joke or at the very least stop looking at him the way I am.
But I don’t.
Instead, I step forward.
One slow, deliberate movement.
‘Yep,’ I say, my voice surprisingly calm. ‘Very, very fine.’
His gaze lingers on my chest and then flicks back up to my face with a quiet smile that does dangerous things to my decision-making abilities.
He doesn’t speak, but steps forward too. His hands skim my bare waist as if committing the shape of me to memory.
‘You sure?’ he asks, his voice soft and careful against the electricity humming between us.
I nod. ‘Unless you want to spend the rest of the night talking about constellations and your deep emotional repression – yes, I’m sure. Very sure.’
That earns me a grin. Then his mouth is on mine.
Hands sliding up my back, thumbs brushing against my ribs. I lean into him, moaning softly as our bodies press together, skin to skin and completely soaked, still.
His hands drift down to the backs of my thighs, and I jump up, wrapping my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bed and lays me down, hovering over me with a look that makes it hard to breathe.
‘You’re staring,’ I murmur.
‘I’m appreciating.’ His eyes dip again, trailing down my body with that same infuriating focus.
‘You planning to write a Google review?’
‘Already drafting the headline: “Woman Tries to Seduce Local Farmer – Fails Miserably at Staying Detached”.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Bold of you to assume I’m the one getting attached.’
‘You’ve been attached since I showed you the Emu constellation.’ I open my mouth to protest, but his lips are already back on mine – hot, commanding and cocky enough to back up every word he’s said.
His hands trail down again, one sliding under my thigh to pull me closer, the other braced on the pillow beside my head. The weight of his body against mine is all consuming. Skin on skin, breath to breath, every inch of him pressed into me like a question he’s daring me to answer.
I arch up, my hands grazing the muscles of his back.
‘You’re not as smooth as you think you are,’ I manage to say between kisses.
‘Maybe,’ he murmurs into the corner of my jaw. He dips his head lower, lips skimming over my collarbone and then the tender skin of my nipple. I suck in a breath and try not to sound too affected, which is a joke, because my body is melting under his touch.
‘How are you so warm?’ I mutter, curling my fingers into his damp hair.
He hums against my skin. ‘Maybe I’m not cold-blooded like you city types.’
I laugh, but it’s shaky, because his mouth has found a very sensitive spot under my ribs. I lead one of his hands down between my legs. ‘I’m not cold-blooded.’
He smiles and sucks on my other nipple. ‘No, you’re not.’
‘Don’t go soft on me,’ I murmur, fingers sliding down the centre of his chest.
His blue eyes flick up. ‘You’ll know when I get soft,’ he says, voice dark and unhurried. Then he shifts, pressing against me fully, and I feel the hard line of him against my entrance. My whole body lights up like someone flipped a switch.
I go still – for a second. Barely even a beat. But he notices. Of course he does.
‘Too much?’ he asks, quieter now.
‘No,’ I say, breath catching. ‘Just … damn.’
His mouth curves. ‘That’s the Google review I was hoping for.’
‘You’re arrogant,’ I breathe, my fingers trailing lower until they close around his length. ‘It’s offensive.’
‘You’re still touching me.’
‘I’m being polite.’
He grins wickedly, pulling away and dipping his head between my thighs. ‘You’re going to be louder than polite in about five minutes.’
I gasp as his tongue slides between my legs.
‘Only five?’ I tease.
He pulls back to look up at me from between my thighs, his lips glistening and curved in that maddening smirk.
‘You want to start a timer?’
I open my mouth to answer – something clever, something smug –
but the second his tongue moves again, all coherent thought detonates.
My hips jerk, my hands fist the sheets, and I let out a sound that I will later pretend was a hiccup or a cough, anything other than a needy, wrecked moan.
He hums, satisfied, and that hum vibrates through me. My legs start to tremble.
‘I hate you,’ I whisper, because it’s the only sentence I have access to.
He doesn’t even look up this time. ‘You say the nicest things.’
And then his mouth is back on me, focused, unrelenting – he’s on a mission and failure is not an option.
I can’t think. Can’t speak. Only feel.
My fingers twist in the sheets, and I swear I see stars – actual, literal constellations – as the heat builds, unbearable and perfect and right there.
‘Oh – shit, I—’
I break apart with a cry. My whole body arches, legs trembling, everything unravelling in one white-hot second of pure oblivion.
I’m still gasping when I hear him.
‘Three minutes and thirty-eight seconds.’
I groan, flopping back against the mattress. ‘You’re the worst.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Since when did this become a competition?’
‘Just confirming what I already knew.’
‘That you’re a farmer with a god complex?’
He grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a satisfied sinner. ‘Something like that.’
I glare at him. Or I try to. It’s hard when your legs still haven’t recovered full function. ‘I hate you with my whole soul.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he murmurs, then stands and heads for his bag.
I prop myself up on shaky elbows, then freeze as he pulls out a foil packet, tears it open and rolls on a condom without missing a beat.
No groan. No delay. No, ‘Oh, I forgot.’
Just smooth, competent prep. A man who knows what he’s doing and isn’t looking for a gold star for doing the bare minimum.
‘Did you … without being asked?’ I ask, genuinely stunned.
He’s already moving back to the bed. His smile is cocky and just this side of reverent. ‘Gotta stay prepared.’
I laugh for a second, until he flips me onto my stomach. My breath catches. Oh, okay, cowboy.
He doesn’t waste time. His hands wrap around my hips, pulling me up, tilting me into position – and then he pushes in, slow and devastating.
I let out a strangled sound, gripping the sheets as he sinks deeper. The stretch, the pressure, the feel of him – every part of me clenches in response.
And then he moves.
Every thrust is a rhythm I can’t match; every breath I take gets chased out of me by the next one. The bedhead taps the wall, then thuds against it with increasing urgency. I don’t care. I’m too far gone. I’m liquid.
I brace one arm against the headboard, the other grasping at anything – him, the air, any idea of self-control.
Luke’s hand slides around my throat just enough to guide me back until my spine arches against him. His chest to my back, his mouth at my neck.
Then his other hand reaches lower, between my thighs. And everything breaks.
My vision tunnels. My body clenches. A noise tears from my throat that I hope never escapes this room.
I fall apart again.
He follows – his rhythm faltering, his grip tightening and a low groan slipping against my skin as he lets go inside me.
We collapse together, breath tangled, skin slick, bodies trembling, the world tilting on its axis. And in the silence that follows, I realise something horrible.
I actually enjoyed that.