Page 25 of Smoked

“From the guy sending me obscene texts all week?”

He smiles shyly. “It’s different when you’re right here in front of me, looking as good as you do.”

I pull him down for quick kiss, and when I move back, his eyes are still closed.

“Not nervous anymore,” he whispers, then turns to flip off the lamp switch.

But I block him, covering his hand with mine. "Leave it on," I say.

He gazes down at me. "Tess, I⁠—"

"I want to see you."

"You've seen me."

"Not like this.” I run my hand up his arm. “Not all of you."

His eyes drop to the floor and then come back to mine and I can see the argument happening behind them—the one he's been having with himself since the cookout, since the first time I touched him underneath his shirt.

"Not much to see," he says, with a half-smile.

"Don't do that." I trace the skin at the collar of his shirt with my nails. "There’s no need to make those self-deprecating remarks about yourself. I want to see every part of your thick, sexy body."

He swallows, and I watch it travel down his throat.

I reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it up slowly.

He doesn't help, but he doesn't stop me either. He lifts his arms when the fabric reaches his shoulders and he pulls it the rest of the way over his head. Then he lets it fall on the bed next to him.

He’s absolutely magnificent.

The farmer tan is strong on his arms and the scoop of his neck where his T-shirts typically sit. The color is a deep, ruddy bronze and everything else is two shades lighter. The hair on his chest is the same dark blond as his beard, trailing down his center, feathering out across the curve of his stomach, and his shoulders are enormous. The breadth of him is staggering.

"You’re stunning, Wade.” I run my hands over his chest, the hair soft under my palms. His skin is fever-hot as I trace down the swell of his stomach—the thick, round, undeniable belly of a man who eats the delicious food he cooks. His muscles jump under my touch.

“Sit down and lay back,” I say, and he eases down onto the bed. leaning back onto his elbows, eyes on me. "You're shaking," I whisper.

"You’re touching me." His voice is rough.

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask.

“Fuck, no,” he rasps.

I straddle his knees on the bed and bend forward to press my mouth to the top of his chest, right below his collarbone. The hair tickles my lips and I kiss across to the other side, feeling the thud of his heart under my mouth.

Then I lick over his nipple.

“Oh…” his pecs shiver.

I circle his nipple slowly, kissing and licking the tight peak, as I drag a nail across the other one. He sucks in air through his teeth and the muscles in his arms go rigid where they're bracing him up.

"You like that?" I murmur against his skin. “When I tease your nipples with my tongue?"

"Tess, shit…"

I flick my tongue over him again, harder this time, and his head drops back. His elbows slide a fraction on the bedspread.

I lick a slow line down the center of his chest, following the trail of hair over the swell of his belly. His head lifts to watch me and my eyes flick up to his—hazy brown, blown wide, helpless. I hold his gaze while I press my lips to the curve of his stomach, the softest part of him, all the sinfully sexy flesh hiding under his shirt.