I nod that I do, and Wes grabs my hand and leads me around to the back of the Oak tree. A makeshift ladder lines the bark of the tree, leading into a hole at the bottom of the tree house. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling me in front of him.
Barely taking the first two steps up the ladder, I look back over my shoulder and down at him. “I don’t think I can do this.” I wrap my fingers around the pieces of wood nailed into the tree and hold on for dear life.
“Because of your fear of heights?”
“Yes,” I answer quietly.
Walking closer to the tree, he places his hand on my lower back, supporting me. “I have you, Kenleigh.”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head like a two year old who doesn’t want to take a nap, but God only knows if this thing is stable and sturdy enough.
“You said you trusted me, right?”
“Yeah, you, but not this thing.” I point to the rickety wood above me.
He chuckles for a moment and then turns those pleading gorgeous eyes on me. “Then trust me. I have you. I will not let anything happen to you.”
My gaze turns away from him to the opening about twenty feet above me, and then back to him. I take a deep breath and begin to climb. “Okay. But I swear to you, if I fall off this ladder and die, I’m gonna haunt you.”
Wes laughs at my response. But I’m serious. If I fall to my death, I will haunt him until the day he dies.
“I promise you won’t fall, but if you did, and you did haunt me, at least I’d be able to say that I have a hot ass ghost haunting me.”
“I’m sure you would,” I retort with my own chuckle as I pull myself up through the hole in the floor of the tree house. With shaky hands and wobbly legs, I apply pressure to the boards, praying to the good Lord above that it will hold my weight. As I slowly pull myself up, I peek inside the wooden fort. A blanket lies on the hard wooden floor. Lit candles are placed sporadically throughout, and the soft sound of Thompson Square’s Are You Gonna Kiss Me or Not croons from a stereo on a ledge in the back of the tree house. Old tattered posters of Aerosmith, Garth Brooks, George Strait, and Brooks and Dunn hang on the walls.
I’m pulled back from one of the most romantic sights I’ve ever seen when Wes’s hands slip around my waist. “Do you like it?”
“You did all of this?” I ask, turning to look at him.
I’m answered with a nod and a shy smile. I shake my head as I turn in his grasp. “I can’t believe you. I love it.” I lift my hand and cup his cheek, feeling his clean-shaven skin, and pull his face down to mine. “Thank you,” I whisper before faintly brushing my lips against his.
The corners of his lips pull up in a slow smile when I pull back. “Wait, it gets better.” He moves around me to an ice chest that sits tucked into an alcove. As he scoots it across the floor, he opens it and pulls out two Saran Wrap covered plates.
With my curiosity peaked and my nerves settled, I move closer to Wes and reach my hand out so he can hand the plates to me. “What’s that?”
“Food,” he offers with a smile.
“Well, no shit. What kind of food?” I ask with my own chuckle.
He pulls back the plastic film and displays a perfectly cooked pork chop, green beans, a slice of cornbread, and a baked potato. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the smell of the delicious meal invades my senses. With a loud grumble, my stomach growls. Instantly, my cheeks turn ten shades of red. I swallow down my mortification, straighten my back and shrug shoulders as if my stomach grumbling isn’t a big deal.
“Hungry much?” Wes laughs.
“Just a little.” I take a seat. “Smart-ass.” With my feet tucked under me, I help him place the plates on the blanket. I watch as Wes continues pulling out the sour cream, cheese, salt and pepper, and two beers. A flutter takes off in my heart as I think of how no one has ever done this for me. A man I barely know is sitting here with me, doing all this for me. And I don’t even know how to say thank you because I am completely speechless.
I dig deep for courage, because what I’m about to do is not like me at all. With his back to me, I lift up off my knees, gently grab his shoulders and speak directly in his ear, letting my lips brush against the shell. “Thank you,” I whisper. Before I can pull back, he spins around and pulls me to him. Within seconds, his hands are in my hair as he crushes his lips to mine. It’s unyielding, demanding—powerful. My fingers glide up his strong arms, feeling the corded muscles that stretch up into his neck, before they thread into his hair. My legs move me closer to where I’m able to straddle his lean hips. I kiss him back with just as much want and passion. Our tongues match stroke for stroke. Our breaths become labored as our tongues do their own two-step. With carnal desire surging through my veins, I rock my hips against his jean clad, very hard, very generous package, and grind my sweet spot against him. I break away from his lips, trailing kisses along his strong jaw; all the while, his lips caress the sensitive skin of my neck. I grind against him harder when I feel his strong hands cup my very heavy, very achy breasts. “Oh… my… God… Wes,” I pant in his ear.