Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 23

When Ford tugs my hair back and takes my mouth, my knees go weak.

But he catches me. He holds me up. He presses his leg between mine, wraps his big palm around my throat, and kisses me senseless while I hold on to his hips for dear life.

The energy between us is intense, and yet he doesn’t rush. His lips are firm, his tongue is soft, and his stubble rasps against my skin, sending sparks skittering over my body.

He savors me. He makes every touch, every point of contact feel like it lasts longer and goes deeper than should be humanly possible.

With Ford Grant kissing me, the world stands still. I smell him.

I feel him.

I taste him.

My palms itch, so I slide them beneath his shirt. His warm skin and the light smattering of hair just above his belt buckle make me groan into his mouth.

He nips my bottom lip in response and dives back into working my mouth. My fingers inch up, exploring the ridges I peeked at the night when we sat together after his swim. He’s tall, all lean muscle and masculine bulk.

I whimper when my hand finds the end of that silver chain. It’s a talisman, a reminder of the night he held me. The night I so desperately needed to be held.

And no one was there except for⁠—

“Ford,” I breathe his name against his lips and hardly recognize my voice.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs back.

My smile gets cut off by another tug on my hair, and now his mouth is on my neck. Biting. Kissing. Licking.

“No, you’re not.” I roll my head back and press my breasts out toward him. I swear my body already knows what my head has had an impossible time wrapping itself around.

I expect him to laugh, but he takes his mouth off me, and I want to stamp my foot. I want to plunge us straight back into that frantic moment of need.

I want to be consumed by him.

That wild look flashes in his eyes as he pulls away, only far enough to meet my gaze. We both know he’s not sorry, so he doesn’t confirm it—he just watches me for a moment. I’m worried he’ll leave. Stop. Throw in the towel and walk away.

Instead, his voice comes out soft and deep—almost pained—as he murmurs, “No, I’m not.”

And then he kisses me again. But it’s different this time. It’s soft.

The pads of his fingers curl under my chin, and then his knuckles stroke up over my cheeks. My chest aches with the sweetness of it, and I press myself closer to him. Wanting his heat, his touch, his protection.

Because no matter how much he infuriated me tonight, I’d be a fool not to recognize that the man kissing me right now would ride headfirst into battle with me. For me. He’d cut people down with his words. Scorch them with his glare. Humiliate them with his directness.

And after everything this past month has held for me, that makes me long for him in a completely unfamiliar way. I grip his chain and press down on his leg. If I could crawl right into his lap and have him pet me like a fucking cat, I would. I’d purr for him.

The kiss slows, and I can sense his retreat before it’s even happened.

“Ford, please don’t stop.”

He takes his hands off my face and props them on the wall behind me before dropping his head to the crook of my neck. My hands roam gently over the back of his head as he dusts kisses across the top of my shoulder, making my body break out in gooseflesh.

“I should.”

“You shouldn’t,” I counter, raking my fingers through his hair like I’ve seen him do so many times before.

“I have to. You know this isn’t okay.”

“Why?”

His head turns up now, and he stares at me. My body trembles under the weight of it, and his eyes narrow like he’s noticed. He doesn’t miss a single thing.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

His hands remain propped above me, and I’m practically riding his leg. He’s caged me in, and I’m happy to stay right where I am. Even with his menacing green gaze boring into me.

“Rosie, I told you to make sure that you were single the next time you ask me that.”

Oh god. He doesn’t know.

“I…” I shake my head, gazing back at him. He kissed me. Consequences be damned. My voice shakes. “I am.”

“What?” He pushes off the wall and takes a step back.

“I didn’t think about you not knowing… that’s why Ryan had a bad day.”

Ford winces at the mere mention of his name and rakes both hands through his hair, only stopping when he’s gripping the back of his head, elbows still up in the air. His lips are puffy, and his eyes are tortured. “Jesus. I had no idea.”

“You kissed me anyway.” I lift a hand to my lips and dust a finger over them. I swear I can still feel him there.

“I did.”

“Are you sorry now?”

The silence between us is deafening. His jaw pops as his molars grind. And then, “No.”

But he doesn’t stay with me for long—he turns and starts walking away.

“Where are you going?”

“To apologize to Fuckboy,” he calls back over his shoulder.

“Why? I thought you weren’t sorry?”

He pauses, his hand pressed against the corner of the building, considering. His eyes slice back to mine, almost violently. My entire body tingles. “Let’s call it my condolences then, because any asshole dumb enough to blow it with you when they’ve got you free and clear is having a bad fucking day.”

“Are you going to come back after?”

Ugh. I hate asking that out loud. I sound desperate and so unlike myself.

Ford drops my gaze now, as if there’s something terribly interesting about his boots. “That’s the thing, Rosie. I’ve gone and made you my employee, and I know you need this job. There is nothing free and clear about us.”

Then his fingers rap against the vinyl and he’s gone.

Leaving me more confused about him than ever.