Page 130 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

She glances at me. “You don’t sound surprised.”

I shrug. “Anyone who’s paying attention can see this isn’t random.”

That earns me a quiet, grateful look.

I turn the truck toward the lookout without asking. She doesn’t question it. She knows the spot. Everyone does. It’s where the road crests just enough that the whole valley opens up beneath you, lights scattered with the look of a spilled box of stars.

When we park, I let Bolt out. He launches himself into the open space, embracing the freedom.

June laughs softly at that, and my chest loosens.

I lean back against the seat, watching her as she lets out a deep breath. The night hums. Crickets. Distant engines. The quiet kind that holds instead of presses.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, but then shakes her head. “I don’t know. Better. Scared. Relieved. All of it.”

“That makes sense,” I say.

She turns toward me, moving closer without seeming to realize she’s doing it. The space between us shrinks until I can smell her shampoo, feel the warmth of her body even in the cool air.

“You really believe me,” she says quietly.

“Completely,” I answer, just as quiet. “No hesitation.”

Her throat works.

I think she might cry again.

Instead, she reaches for me.

The kiss is gentle. Checking whether the ground will hold.

It does.

I slide my hands to her waist, anchoring her there, letting her set the pace. She deepens it, breath hitching, fingers curling into my jacket. She’s decided she’s done bracing for impact.

Heat builds. Not frantic. Focused.

She climbs into my lap without a word, knees braced on either side of me, forehead resting against mine. “Rex, I want you.”

Her words stick the landing, breathless and sharp, and the urge I've been tamping down since she first climbed in the truck ignites like a dropped match in dry grass.

I draw her closer, hands skating under her shirt, skin hot under my palms. I kiss her again, harder this time, and she makes a sound that pins me to the seat harder than any seatbelt.

Her legs tighten around my hips, and for a half second, I try, genuinely, really try, to keep my hands cautious, decent.

That lasts about as long as a heartbeat, because she’s grinding against me now, her fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of my neck, and every rational thought cracks and shatters.

It’s awkward, in the way all good things are. My shoulders hit the door, she bonks hers on the ceiling of the cab. My wallet drops and gets wedged in the seat crack. Bolt, instantly jealous, whines at the window. He knows he’s missing something he assumes is deeply essential to his personal happiness.

She laughs into my mouth, and it’s the hottest, softest sound in the goddamn world. Her hands are under my shirt, tracing muscle, coaxing my skin to goosebumps.

“Can I…” she pants, banging her knee against the steering wheel.

I pull the lever and snap the seat back in one slick move; she grins, triumphant, and licks her thumb before ducking under the hem of my shirt.

She is, no other word for it, hungry. All hesitation gone. She kisses her way down my chest, slow at first, and then, shit, she bites me, just under my ribs, and the pain rings out, tuning fork sharp, flipping every switch in me and amplifying every other sense until I’m shaking with it.