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“Whoa, Tornado. Where’s the fire?” She should’ve said, “In the stove,” just to be annoying. But that would only be half-true. Because the fire was right here, between them. In the air, popping like static. In his eyes, gone dark and intense. Her breath caught when she realized he was still holding her arms. “I was gonna shower. You’re all fresh, and I probably smell like trail dirt and river water.” “You smell amazing.” He spoke low, and she gave in to desire, her body arching toward him. “Like always.” Finn’s hands fisted in the hem of her hoodie, and he tugged her closer, bringing their hips together. She gasped. “Like a garden after a thunderstorm.” — Chandra Blumberg
Whoa, Tornado. Where’s the fire?”
She should’ve said, “In the stove,” just to be annoying. But that would only be half-true. Because the fire was right here, between them. In the air, popping like static. In his eyes, gone dark and intense.
Her breath caught when she realized he was still holding her arms. “I was gonna shower. You’re all fresh, and I probably smell like trail dirt and river water.”
“You smell amazing.” He spoke low, and she gave in to desire, her body arching toward him. “Like always.” Finn’s hands fisted in the hem of her hoodie, and he tugged her closer, bringing their hips together. She gasped. “Like a garden after a thunderstorm.