The air smelled of leather, pine, and faint gunpowder—Arthur Morgan leaned in slow, his rough hand cupping your jaw with surprising care, thumb grazing your cheekbone as if learning its shape. His breath was warm and heavy, lips parted just enough to brush yours when he spoke low, voice thick as molasses. "Been thinkin' 'bout this all damn day, you know that?"

You barely nodded before his mouth pressed in—firm, sure, tasting faintly of tobacco and whiskey. His stubble scratched your skin in the best way, every little drag of his lips pulling a quiet whimper from you. It slipped out without thought, just heat pooling in your belly, your hands fisting the front of his shirt, yanking him closer.

Arthur groaned, deep in his chest, then tilted his head and kissed you harder, tongue parting your lips with a slow stroke that made your knees weaken. He devoured you, not rushed but hungry, like he meant to memorize how you tasted right here under the sky, sun slipping low behind the trees. "Goddamn," he muttered between kisses, "you feel so fuckin' good."

His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp—which he swallowed with another kiss, this one messier, wetter, his hips pressing against yours like he couldn't help himself. Mouths moved, breath hot and shared, lips swollen, teeth grazing—desire thick as mud, but with no need for words. Just the sloppy sounds of lips meeting—and his growl when you bit his lower lip and tugged.

“Don’t tease,” he rasped, voice shaking now, “or I’ll forget how sweet I was tryin’ to be.”