When Wren Hart returns to her sleepy little Midwest town after years on the road, she finds the last thing she’d ever expect—a reason to stay. And that reason has a hard body, a knowledge of vinyl, and a crooked smile that sends her reeling.
Preston is a gorgeous, mysterious man, whose life is ruled by routine and order. Yet somehow, he finds Wren and her wild ways captivating. While their relationship grows in a delicate dance of chaos and control, the danger Wren thought she’d left behind during her travels is inching ever closer…and just may destroy them both.
“Want to tell me what you’re thinking about?”
Preston’s gaze flicks to my mouth and up to my eyes.
Hope ignites a fire inside me. “And how do you feel about kissing?”
I see his Adam’s apple bob, and he taps the side of his glass with his index finger.
“It’s easier when I’m drunk. The alcohol seems to take the edge off.”
I frown at the thought of this. Needing alcohol to dull your senses seems like such a waste. I try not to give him a sympathetic look. I know he doesn’t want my pity.
“That’s too bad,” I say, letting my palm rest on his knee. The song changes, and I grin at the familiar beat. “Kissing is one of my favorite things. I mean, sex is good, but kissing is much more intimate. Don’t you think?”
Preston shrugs at me, but I see that I have his undivided attention.
“First there’s the build up. Innocent touches,” I say, dragging my nails up his thigh, “and mutual flirting just to let the other party know you’re open to the idea. There’s that slow burn in your body. It builds every time you catch the other person staring.” Preston listens intently, finishing his whiskey. He licks those perfect lips, and my fingers tighten around my glass, holding on to the last of my control. “Every time you drink or take a bite of something, your full attention is brought to the mouth. You imagine what those lips will feel like. Will they be soft and submissive? Or hard and possessive?”
I sip my drink while he pours himself another.
“And which do you prefer?” he asks. His normally deep voice is even lower and gritty. It reminds me of the static scratching noise when an album finishes playing.
“I like both—individually and at the same time. I like to be owned by a kiss.”
Preston leans back on the couch and sips his drink again. He stares out at the store.
“Seems like a lot of pressure for a kiss.”