Free The Sweetest Thing by Jill Shalvis Page B

counter to open it.
    He had her pretty flour container next to it, ready to be filled, and she moved in. “Here, let me.”
    “I’ve got it.”
    “I’m here, Ford. You might as well make the best of it. I’m not going to just stand around and watch you do all the work.”
    When he didn’t stop his movements, she gave him a little hip nudge and reached for the bag.
    “Fine.” Raising his hands in surrender, he backed up, just as she ripped the bag open with slightly too much force. Flour
     exploded out of the bag. After a few stunned beats, she blinked rapidly to clear her eyes, and looked at herself.
Covered
in flour. She lifted her head and eyed Ford, who was wisely fighting his smile. “You did this on purpose,” she said.
    “No, that was all you.”
    She attempted to shake herself off. “Better?”
    He ran a hand over his mouth, probably to hide his smile. “Yes.”
    “You’re lying,” she said, eyes narrowed.
    “Yes.”
    Okay, that was it. She stalked toward him.
    Laughing out loud now, Ford straightened. “Whatever you’re planning to do,” he warned. “Don’t.”
    “Oh, Sugar.” Didn’t he know better than to tell herwhat to do by now? “
Watch me
.” She backed him up against the counter and held him there—plastering herself to him from chest to belly to thigh… and everything
     in between—on a one-woman mission to cover him in flour, too. “Gotcha,” she said triumphantly as she rubbed up against him.
     “Now you’re just as big a mess as me.”
    His hands were at her hips. “Is that right?” His voice sounded different now. Lower. Rough as sandpaper.
    And heat slashed right through her. “Uh-huh.” She bit her lip, realizing that her voice was different, too, and that she was
     staring at his mouth.
    And then she realized something else. She wasn’t breathing.
    He wasn’t, either.
    Of their own accord, her hands slid up his chest, wrapped around his neck, and then… oh God, and then.
    Ford said her name on a rough exhale. Holding her against the hard planes of his body, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity,
     he lowered his head. “Stop me if you’re going to,” he said in quiet demand, all humor gone.
    Tara sucked in some air, but didn’t stop him. Not when his lips came down on hers, and not when he kissed her until she couldn’t
     remember her own name.

Chapter 7

    “Accept that some days you’re the bug, and some days you’re going to be the windshield.”
    T ARA D ANIELS
    D azed, Ford tightened his grip on Tara, hearing the groan that her kiss wrenched from deep in his throat.
She
was kissing
him
. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d hauled off and decked him. But having her push him up against the counter
     and kiss him hard like she was… oh, yeah.
Way
better than anything that had happened all day.
    All damn year.
    Ah, hell. Clearly she’d finally done it, she’d driven him bat-shit crazy, but she felt so good against him. Warm and soft,
     willing.
Amazing
.
    And aggressive.
    Christ, there was nothing more irresistible than Tara on a mission. And that he was that mission made it even better.
    She pulled back slightly and he smiled. “Was that supposed to be punishment?”
    “Yes.” Her fingers curled into his shirt. “So be quiet and take it like a man.”
    Ford was still smiling when she kissed him this time, but the amusement faded fast, replaced by a blinding, all-consuming
     need.
    All too soon, she pulled back again, eyes dark, mouth wet from his. “Is there anyone in your bed?” she asked, her voice low
     and extremely southern.
    He loved the way her accent thickened when she felt something particularly deeply. “No,” he said. “There’s no one in my bed.”
     Except for her, hopefully. Soon. Because this was waaay better than pushing each other’s buttons.
    “Just wanted to make sure.” With each word, her lips just barely grazed his, making him all the hotter. Tightening his grip
     on her, he whipped them around,