Page 67 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

I clench and hold, because honestly, I’m not that strong of a man. One more shift of her fingers and I’m dropping to my knees, lifting her skirt, and capturing my first taste of her in way too long. “Sadie, honey. You’re killing me.”

It’s dark on the street, the lamplights casting a soft glow as the odd shriek drifts from the food fair, reminding me we’re in a populated area. My body’s urging me to open her car door, coax her into the back seat like we’re teenagers again, stealing privacy wherever we can. Tonight, though. So much was perfect, but there were too many distant moments. Rushing Sadie if she’s not ready would only backfire.

“Des.” Her hands press harder into my abdomen, then move around my waist to my back. “I . . .” She drops her gaze, but her fingers are strong and insistent, digging into the cut of my spine.

My hips move. I can’t help it. They roll into her, the already hard line of my cock notching against her stomach. It’s not classy or suave. I’m just a man, pressing his erection into the woman he loves, waiting to be told it’s okay to blow her mind. “Just say the word, Sprite. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

She pulls me closer, presses her nose to the dip between my collarbones. She’s smelling me, I think, threatening my already frayed composure. Then she returns her hands to my chest, creating space between us. “I should get home. Sitter and all.”

Her voice has some husk to it, every syllable dragging across my oversensitive skin, but the worry line has returned to her brow. There’s tension in her stiff shoulders.

I brush my hand down her hip. “When can I see you again?”

“You’ll see me tomorrow.”

“Alone.” So we can work through whatever has her keeping me at a distance.

Her occasional stiffness feels bigger than her work issue. More upsetting and personal. Maybe to do with her law comment earlier—concern about where I’m at in my life now, the bartending I’ve done for a decade. I may have told her I’m going to law school, but she could be worried I’ll get overwhelmed and quit. Or GQ Joseph could be putting moves on her, giving her another option to consider.

She leans onto her car, fiddles with her purse. “I’ll check with the sitter about booking another night. Sorry I can’t be more spontaneous.”

“I don’t need spontaneous.” I dip my head and meet her eyes, trying to show my sincerity. “Just more time with you.”

“Told you,” she says tenderly, “the tattoos and hard exterior are just a disguise. In here”—she presses her hand to my chest again—“you’re all marshmallow.”

I cover her hand with mine, okay with my gooey center. “Can I get a kiss for the road?”

She breathes deeper, seeming torn. Then she nods.

I don’t waste the gift of her consent. I lean down and slant my mouth over hers, pressing softly. Tender moves. Slow and languid kisses, like we have all the time in the world. Like I’m not worried Sadie’s hesitancy will end with me on another wall-punching bender, bawling my heartache to Mirielle.

She moans and kisses me back, dragging her fingers through my short hair. And Christ. I’m done for. A pile of putty for this woman. The kiss turns deep and filthy, our tongues making up for lost time. I go from hard to harder, every muscle and tendon flexing with need—desperation I’ve never felt. I mean, I’m practically revirginized. I haven’t been with a woman since the night I called Sadie and assumed she had a son with someone else. Nine months of self-pity and abstinence. But this is Sadie Jones. Only she could turn my body this haywire.

Pulling away is painful, but there’s the issue of public indecency. I’d rather Max not see me in jail.

I squeeze Sadie’s waist and finish with a soft kiss to her cheek. “You taste better than the cupcakes.”

“You tasted better with the cupcake icing on you.”

I groan, imagining painting her in icing—the dip of her collarbones, the tips of her nipples, the valley between her thighs. “You live to torture me. And when we’re hiking tomorrow, don’t go spreading lies about my digestive system like after our dance. Lactose intolerance is no joke.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Says the guy who loved it when Lennon would dare him to drink milk or eat cheese.”

“Sadie, Lennon’s a menace. If I back down from a dare, the guy’s intolerable.”

“You boys were too funny together.”

We were. Stupid boys doing stupid stuff. “Be warned, next time you throw me under the bus, I might have to share my photo of you with your anal-bead necklace.”

She attempts to glare, but her twitching lips betray her. I wink at her, then head to my car, loving the cute amusement she can’t hide. Our hike tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

TWENTY-ONE

Fungus gets a bad rap. The name is obviously a kick in the pants, and some of them are nasty looking, but my preteen platoon is made of natural-born mushroom hunters. All six mini humans are zooming around the forest as we slowly make our way along the trail, constantly stopping for quick sketches. Using my handouts, they have to guess the varietal and write the name of the mushroom under their drawings. The kid with the most correct sketches wins a prize, and I’ve never seen them this intense. They know what’s at stake today—the top mushroom hunter gets another of my braided bracelets.

I thought the homemade prize would be eye roll worthy. Then Olivia showed up this morning, all her other bracelets removed except for Monday’s win, preening and showing it off. Not gonna lie, I think the heat in my face was actual blushing. Now they all want one.

Max runs up to me, breathless, shoving his sketchbook toward me. “It’s a shaggy mane. It looks like a furry hat.”