Page 69 of The Best Thing He Never Wanted

“Don’t tell Cash.”

She laughed, and the knot inside her loosened. This time she reached for the hem herself, and he let her.

There was something unexpectedly wonderful about that, too. She wasn’t being undressed as though she were an object somebody had finally been granted access to. Instead, she was taking part in it, pulling her own top over her head while he watched. Then, she unfastened the buttons of his shirt one by one and discovered, with considerable satisfaction, the way this enormous, intimidating man was affected by her doing it.

His breathing changed when she spread her hands over his bare chest. Well. That was interesting—so interesting that she did it again.

His eyes narrowed. “You enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely.”

“Figured.”

She smiled as she ran her fingertips over him, learning what had until now been hidden beneath the shirts and jackets and all that granite-cliff stillness. He was warm, incredibly solid, and scarred in places she wanted to ask about someday, though not now. Now, she wanted to know what made his breath catch. What made those eyes close for half a second. What made the control she’d come to associate so completely with Blane Wilder slip.

The answer, delightfully, seemed to be her.

And then she was the one standing there in her bra while his hands settled at her waist, and some of her courage deserted her again.

He noticed. Of course he did. “Bea.”

“I know, I know. I’m being ridiculous.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“No, but—”

“You’re beautiful.”

She stopped. He said it so simply that she couldn’t dismiss it as flattery. Blane didn’t flatter. She’d learned that much already. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His thumb moved once over her side. “I want to.”

That silenced her. She let him kiss her again, and after that the remaining clothes became less of an event. Hers, then his, all dropped and were pushed aside between kisses until there was nothing left to hide behind.

And there she was, two years away from being sixty years old, utterly naked in a bedroom in Crete with a naked man she’d barely known four days. Her chattering mind registered that there ought to be something alarming about that. Instead, when she looked at him, the only words her mind could find were, Oh my.

Apparently, some things were every bit as impressive without Wranglers.

He caught her looking, and one eyebrow rose.

“Don’t.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“No, but your eyebrow did.”

His mouth twitched.

She laughed and closed the distance between them again. Even then, there was a little awkwardness, a slight, lingering self-consciousness, but mostly there was Blane—his mouth, his hands, and the warmth of bare skin against bare skin. She quickly learned the little breath he let out when she touched him in a way he liked.

She was smiling when he lifted his head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.