Page 223 of Tessa and Nash

It is not especially graceful. More relief than elegance.

His hands come up, warm at my waist, and I just stand there in the circle of his arms, kissing him because I do not know how else to express the size of what I am feeling.

When I pull back, he looks a little dazed.

“Well,” he says softly. “I’m going to assume that means the flowers were not offensive.”

I laugh, and this time the sound doesn’t shake. “They’re lovely.”

Then I kiss him again.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Nash

March 2nd

The kiss hits me hard as a match to dry grass.

One second, we’re standing there in the quiet of the guest house, and the next, my mouth is on hers. It isn’t careful. It isn’t slow. It’s urgent and a little rough, both of us have been holding back too much for too long.

Tessa leans straight into it, fingers bunching in the front of my shirt as she drags me closer. That tiny sound she makes in the back of her throat tells me everything I need to know… she wants this just as badly as I do.

I guide her back a step without breaking the kiss, my hand settling at her waist. My mouth moves along her jaw, down the curve of her neck, before I find her lips again. She gasps softly, and the sound shoots straight through me.

Somewhere in the back of my head, a sensible voice suggests slowing down.

It doesn’t stand a chance.

Not when she feels this way in my arms. Not when the pull between us is this strong.

Her back meets the wall with a quiet thud, and I follow, pressing closer. The heat between us is instant, my body lining up with hers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When she looks up at me, her lips are parted and her eyes are dark in a way that makes my pulse jump.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to grab the front of my shirt, tugging it up so her fingers can slide underneath. Her palm presses against my skin.

“Nash,” she breathes. “I want you.”

And that’s all it takes.

I grab her and kiss her once more.

Tessa moves fast after that. My jacket is off my shoulders in seconds, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull slap somewhere behind us. Her hands find the front of my shirt next, impatient fingers working at it until the fabric gives and the buttons go skittering across the floorboards.

Under normal circumstances, I might mourn the loss of a perfectly good shirt.

Right now, I hardly notice.

All I’m aware of is the look on her face when she steps back, eyes dropping over my chest, taking stock of what she’s just uncovered. The heat in her gaze hits me square in the ribs.

Then her hands move to the hem of her sweater.

She tugs it up in one quick motion, dragging the soft knit over her head and tossing it somewhere behind her without even looking where it lands. The sight of her standing there in nothing but leggings and a bra sends a sharp pulse through my chest.

I just stare.

A small, satisfied smile touches her mouth, she knows exactly what kind of effect she’s having on me.