Page 72 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“Even better.”

He pulled her on to his lap and they shared the dessert, Reese stealing bites from her spoon, Grace laughing when whipped cream ended up on his chin. The candles burned lower, casting shadows that danced across the tower walls. Outside, the fog pressed close, making the world small and safe and just the two of them.

“Best birthday,” Reese said finally.

Grace settled against his chest, both of them looking out at the fog-shrouded darkness. “Really?”

“Really.” His arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “Thank you, Grace.”

“You’re welcome. Everyone deserves to be celebrated.”

They sat like that as the candles burned down, Grace acutely aware of every point of contact: his chest against her back, his arms around her, his breath warm against her neck. The 1920s suit made him feel like someone from another time, like they were existing in a bubble outside reality.

“Grace,” he said, and his voice had gone rough in a way that made her stomach flip.

She should make a joke. Should get off him. Should do literally anything other than what she did, which was close the remaining distance between them.

Their mouths met with an intensity that obliterated thought. This was need, raw and desperate. Grace pressed against him, felt the solid heat of him, and something inside her just…ignited. God, she’d forgotten this. Or maybe she’d never felt it quite like this. This franticness, this urgency, this overwhelming need to get closer, to take more, to have everything.

Years. It had been years since she’d felt desire like this. Since she’d let herself want someone this badly. Single motherhood and exhaustion and just trying to survive had pushed it all down, buried it so deep she’d almost forgotten it existed.

But it existed. Oh, it existed.

Her fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, needing to feel skin. He helped her remove the layers—jacket, vest, shirt—then he yanked her dress down, exposing her breasts so they were skin to skin. She unzipped his pants, pulled him out. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear, and whispered the words that had been building all day: “I want to do what comes after ‘everything but.’ ”

Reese went very still. Then he pulled back to look at her, and there was something almost feral in his expression.

“You sure?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No doubt. “Yes, I’m sure.”

The sound he made—somewhere between a growl and a groan—sent heat straight through her. Then he was lifting her, hands gripping her thighs as he carried her toward the bed, and Grace wrapped her legs around his waist and thought, Finally, finally, finally.

He pulled her dress up, pressing his hand between her legs, stroking her. “Just to be clear,” he said, voice all gravel, “you want my cock, inside you, right here.” He pressed his huge thumb inside her as she bit her lip.

“Yes,” she gasped.

He maneuvered himself so the tip of his hardness throbbed against her folds. “Say it properly. Tell me what you want, Grace.”

Grace’s breath hitched. “I want you inside me.”

“You sure? Anne Boleyn so wouldn’t approve.” His green eyes were mischievous.

“Please—” Her hips lifted, trying to take him in. “Please, Reese. I need you inside me. Now.”

He sat back. Grabbed his wallet from his sweats and pulled out the condom. Rolled it on with his fingers as Grace watched, her gaze tracking every movement.

“Done staring?” he asked.

“Not even close.”

He positioned himself between her legs and sank into her—slow, so achingly slow. The first inch was a stretch, a fullness that made her think, Oh. Right. This. I remember this.

Another inch, and she gasped against his shoulder as Reese watched her face like he was memorizing every expression, every catch of breath.

Show-off, she wanted to say, except she couldn’t actually form words because—

Deeper. God.