Page 115 of The Long Way Home
“I’ve been losing my mind over you for years,” he murmurs. “I’m not just some nice guy, Sunny. I don’t look at other women the way I look at you. I don’t think about touching them the way I think about touching you.”
He leans closer, his breath warm against my skin. His mouth brushes me just enough to make me ache.
“They don’t make me feel the way you do.”
Words abandon me entirely. My fingers grip his shoulders, searching for stability. Heat coils low and urgent, while a tremor runs up my spine. My breath hitches. My body tilts toward him on instinct, chasing the heat. My mind tries to warn me, but the sound of it fades beneath the rush of the chase. It is so close I can almost feel it.
“You’re incredible, Sunny,” he whispers, his voice rough where it meets my skin. His teeth graze lightly, sending a shiver across my entire body. “Every inch of you. I have always noticed you.”
I’m dizzy with want and with disbelief that this is all really happening. He is mine in a way that makes the rest of the world start to fade.
“Let go for me, Sunny,” he whispers, reverent and commanding all at once.
And this time, I do.
I let go.
When the wave is over, he comes back up to my face. His smile is soft as it presses against my temple. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “if I keep you in this bed any longer, we’re never leaving it.”
I laugh, breathless, still tangled in him. “I don’t think I’m physically capable of moving, Rhett.”
A low grin curves his mouth. “Do I need to remind you,” he says quietly, “that I carry people, a lot heavier than you, out of burning buildings for a living?”
Before I can protest, he scoops me up with effortless ease and pulls me flush against his chest like I weigh nothing at all. My arms loop around his neck on instinct, laughter spilling out of me, breath coming in soft, unsteady gasps. He starts toward the door.
Just before we hit the hallway, he glances down and grabs his t-shirt from the floor. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it at me.I fumble the catch, laughing harder as the fabric tangles in my hands.
In the kitchen, he sets me gently onto a barstool, his hands lingering at my waist just long enough to make my pulse jump again.
“Arms,” he says, lifting the shirt over my head.
The cotton slides down over my shoulders, carrying his scent with it. My hair spills loose around my face as I look up at him.
“So,” he says lightly, eyes dark with something deeper. “What are we thinking? Pancakes or eggs?”
I blink, still catching up to myself. “Can I say both?” I ask. “I’m starving.”
“You, Sunny, can have whatever you want. All you have to do is ask.”
I snort, rolling my eyes. “Careful. That’s a dangerous thing to say to me before coffee.”
He chuckles, moving toward the fridge. “I’ve survived worse than your morning moods.”
“My morning moods are perfectly reasonable,” I argue. “You’re just sensitive.”
He glances back over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Sensitive,” he repeats dryly. “That what we’re calling it now?”
I grab the edge of the counter, pretending to consider it. “You're right maybe sensitive isn’t the right word. I mean, you did wake me up with an air raid siren.”
“Occupational hazard,” he says, pulling out eggs. “Firefighters don’t do gentle.”
I tilt my head, watching him crack an egg one-handed like it’s nothing. “You seemed pretty gentle about fifteen minutes ago.”
His lips twitch, but he keeps his eyes on the pan. “Sunny.”
“What?” I smile sweetly. “Just making an observation.”
He finally looks at me then, gaze warm and unmistakably fond. “You’re going to get yourself reassigned from breakfast duty.”
