Like the tide washing shells out to sea, Red’s kisses washed away fragments of Sam’s broken past.

It had been weeks since they’d made love. Weeks of learning to live with the frustration of having her whenever he wanted and then, suddenly, not having her.

Now his need for her overwhelmed him. He craved her mouth, her hair, every inch of her skin, the entire measure of her. He wanted to take refuge inside her, to merge completely until there was no more him and her, only them.

“Red.” Had he said that out loud? Usually, she was the vocal one. And he usually called her Doc. Less personal that way.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more except having her. He scooped up handfuls of her bottom and slid it beneath him, blessing the guy who had designed the Impala’s bench front seat.

“We’re never trading this in,” he rasped.

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