Megan’s laugh was a dare, echoing through the green tunnel of corn. Paul’s boots pounded the earth behind her, a rhythm her heart matched. She glanced back, saw the storm in his eyes, and her breath hitched—not from running. His hand closed around her wrist, pulling her to a stop against his chest. The world was just heat, damp cotton, and the taste of him when his mouth finally found hers.

His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a decade of waiting, hot and desperate. His hands came up to frame her face, his calluses rough against her jaw, holding her there as his tongue swept into her mouth. She tasted of sun and the iced tea they’d shared an hour ago. She made a sound against his lips—a gasp, a surrender—and her hands fisted in the damp cotton of his shirt.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers. Their breath mingled, ragged in the thick air. Dust motes spun in the slanted light cutting between the corn leaves. His eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the storm-gray. “Megan.” Her name wasn’t a word. It was a verdict.

“Paul,” she breathed back. Her thumb brushed the stubble on his cheek. A gesture so familiar it ached.

He kissed her again, slower now, deeper. His hands slid from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders. They traced the straps of her sundress, followed the line of her spine through the thin fabric. She was trembling. Or he was. The green walls around them held the sound of it.

His mouth left hers, trailed fire down her throat. He found the hollow at the base, licked the salt there. She arched into him, a soft cry escaping her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her skin.

“This dress,” he muttered against her collarbone. His voice was gravel. “I’ve watched this dress cling to you all afternoon. Driving me insane.”

His hands found her hips, gripped hard. He walked her back two steps until her shoulder blades met the sturdy stalk of a corn plant. The broad leaves whispered around them. She was caged—by the corn, by his body, by the look in his eyes.

He didn’t ask. His hands slid up her sides, over her ribs. The cotton was damp with sweat, plastered to her skin. He palmed her breasts through the fabric, his thumbs finding her nipples, already hard and eager. She cried out, her head falling back against the stalk.

“Look at me.” His command was low, rough.

Her eyes fluttered open. The want in his gaze was a physical touch. He held it as his hands moved to the front of her dress, to the small buttons between her breasts. His fingers, so capable with tools and soil, fumbled for a second. The tiny slip undid her more than any smooth move ever could.

The first button gave way. Then the second. The dress gaped open, revealing the simple white cotton bra beneath, the swell of her breasts. The late sun caught the freckles dusted across her chest. He went still, just looking. His breath left him in a rush.

“You’re so beautiful.” The reverence in his voice cracked something open in her chest.

He bent his head, pressed his mouth to the skin he’d exposed. His lips were hot, open. He kissed the space between her breasts, the line of her sternum. His hands pushed the dress open wider, over her shoulders. It slid down her arms, caught at her elbows, baring her to the waist.

He unhooked her bra with a single, practiced twist. The straps fell away. Her breasts spilled into his waiting hands.

He made a sound—a groan, torn from deep in his throat. He filled his palms with her, his thumbs sweeping over her nipples again and again. He lowered his head and took one into his mouth.

The heat, the wet suction, the rough drag of his tongue—it arrowed straight to her core. Her knees buckled. He held her up, one arm banding around her back, his mouth relentless on her breast. She was panting, whispering his name, her fingers clutching at his shoulders.

He switched to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention. Her head spun. The scent of dry earth and green corn and his sweat filled her lungs. This was Paul. Her Paul. His mouth on her, his hands on her, after a lifetime of almost.

He lifted his head, his lips glistening. His gaze burned down her body, over her stomach, to where her dress was rucked around her hips. His hand followed his eyes, sliding down her belly, over the cotton covering her mound.

He cupped her there. Through her panties, he felt the heat, the soaked fabric. His eyes locked on hers. “Megan.”

His fingers pressed down, finding the shape of her. She jerked against his hand, a low moan tearing free. He rubbed her, slow, firm circles through the cotton, and her hips began to move, seeking the pressure. Her world narrowed to that point of contact, to the rough pad of his finger tracing her seam, to the unbearable ache building between her legs.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and her dress. In one motion, he pulled them both down her thighs. The air was cool on her wet skin for a second before his hand returned.

His touch was bare, skin on skin. He groaned, feeling her slickness. “God. You’re dripping.”

He didn’t enter her. Not yet. He traced her folds, parted her, his touch agonizingly light. He found her clit, swollen and throbbing, and circled it once, twice. Her whole body tightened, a coil wound to breaking. She was panting, pleading, words she didn’t recognize.

“I need to feel you,” he growled against her neck. His body pressed into hers, and she felt the hard, thick length of him straining against his jeans. It was a promise, a threat. The most beautiful thing she’d ever felt. His finger slid lower, notching at her entrance.

He pushed inside, just the tip.