Page 25 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

The step I took was to follow Piper. “Wait up.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “You can stay.”

“I’ll come back down. I’m hungry.”

I wasn’t, not where my stomach was concerned. My cock on the other hand was starving, begging for another taste of her. It swelled as I caught a whiff of Piper’s shampoo in the air. The citrusy, floral scent overpowered even the surrounding juniper bushes.

Don’t even think about it. I ordered my cock to stand down with a quiet growl. Then I focused on the trail, keeping an eye on Piper as we descended the steepest part of the climb.

The path widened as we crossed the tree line, and I stepped from behind Piper to walk at her side. Otherwise, I’d probably slip and break a leg because I’d be too busy staring at her ass in those second-skin leggings.

We walked for a few yards until Piper broke the silence. “I was—ahh!”

Her ankle rolled and her shoe skidded in the dirt. Arms went flying, feet scrambled, as she tripped, flying headfirst down the hill.

I reacted fast, grabbing her around the waist before she could fall. One arm wrapped around her hips while the other banded around her ribs. Her ass pressed against the bulge in my groin. Her breasts heaved against my forearms as she breathed.

Piper tilted her chin, her wide eyes staring up at me. Her lips were so close, all I’d have to do was bend down and take them.

I swallowed hard, summoning every ounce of willpower. Then I let her go. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. All good.” She nodded, smoothing down her clothes, though they weren’t out of place. “Thanks.”

I nodded.

Nothing good could come of another hookup. Right? It was better if we forgot all about what had happened earlier in her camper.

“So, how’s your hand?” Piper asked, taking a careful step down the trail.

“Huh?”

“Your hand.” She pointed at the hand I’d cut last month.

“Oh, um, it’s fine.” I flexed my hand, the scab from the cut gone and now just a small red line.

“What happened?”

“I was cutting up an apple, and my grip slipped on the knife. It sliced right into my palm. Bled like crazy but it didn’t hurt all that bad.”

She grimaced. “Ouch.”

“Eh, it’s not the worst cut I’ve had. My hands tend to get banged up on occasion with my work.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Woodworking,” I told her. “Mostly custom furniture pieces.”

“Really?” She laughed. “That’s ironic.”

“What’s ironic?”

“Oh, nothing.” She waved it off. “I was just talking about a furniture designer earlier today. He made some pieces for me in New York and offered to make me a dining room table. But he’s got a unique style, very sleek and simple. I’m going for a different style with this house.”

“Like what?” I asked, my interest sparked. Dining room tables were my specialty, and I was curious what kind of table a woman like Piper wanted in her home.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Something rich and warm. Rustic even. I want a table that is beautiful but functional. I don’t want to worry about spilling wine or using glass cleaner every other day just to keep the fingerprints down.”

A design came to me immediately, flashing into my mind with such clarity, I knew exactly what I’d make for her.