“But then, you go and turn a cap backward and give me the full rough-around-the-edges country-boy experience. Do you know how hot that is? I can’t even explain it.” She laughs lightly, like she didn’t just say something that broadsided me. “Hat forward. Cute.” Her free hand mimics grabbing the brim of a cap and turning it backward. “Hat backward? Game on. It’s like a switch.”
I shake my head at her, watching the blush in her cheeks, the fire in her eyes. The trace of shyness on her face.
“Well, that was altogether too much information. The backward cap is melting my brain cells. Gotta go!” She startles me when she pushes away and runs down the compressed path. I hear Luke’s voice taunting her, but he sounds far-off still. Her strides cover the ground but not the way mine do. The urge to chase her and hold her down consumes me. It has me feeling wild and untethered.
Which is why with one sharp turn, I capture her arm at her elbow and push her against the prickly hay. Pressing her into it firmly, my hips lined up with hers. My hard cock against her flat stomach.
“Game on?” I rasp out, as all my reservations about touching the nanny fly out the goddamn window. I don’t need them—definitely don’t want them. Not with the way she’s staring at me right now, eyes fixed on my lips while I grip her elbow and prop another hand against the wall of hay behind her.
Her lip is still wet when she whispers, “Game on.”
I want to shove her back and devour her—leave her struggling to breathe—but I hold that side of myself back.
Because more than that, I want to thank her.
I want to thank her in a way that my words won’t let me, so rather than mauling her like a teenager, I take a ragged breath and let myself drink her in for a moment. The pert tip of her nose. The thick fringe of her lashes. The heartbeat in her temple, just in front of where that beautiful copper hair starts.
I release her arm and trail my knuckles over her skin, starting at her shoulder, slowly dragging them down to her wrist. I’m fascinated by the spray of goose bumps that crop up in the wake of my touch.
My fingers slide between hers, her palm fitting so perfectly in mine.
“I don’t know this game,” she whispers, and I drop my hand from above her head, pressing into her body with the full length of mine. My free hand slides into her hair, and I watch as I slowly comb through the strands, the burnished tone of it matching my tanned skin so well.
“Me neither, Red.” My eyes stay glued to her hair. Truthfully, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. All I know is that I want to savor this.
Savor her.
Because I have a sinking feeling that when we step out of these bales, things will look a lot different. The dusty, grassy smell will drift away, and reality will seep back in.
The reality where I know better than to go after a girl like Willa Grant.
A reality where I’m still too fucking wounded to trust someone.
“Are you gonna make a move, Eaton? Or just stand here petting me?”
My head shakes and my chest rumbles as I chance a look at her eyes. Clear and certain, so bright.
I feel safe when I’m scowling, but it’s getting harder and harder to look at Willa Grant without smiling.
It’s with a smile on my lips that I lean in and press my mouth to hers. She’s soft and willing. She parts for me with such ease. Welcomes the kiss.
Takes me.
When I groan, she whimpers into my mouth, and I swallow her sweet little sounds. Wanting to keep them for myself, memorize them for a rainy day.
It’s been years since I’ve been touched like this, and my chest cracks open at the feel. The contact. The closeness. The intimacy. Hands sliding up over my chest, pressing up over my neck before gripping either side of my skull. Dainty fingertips behind my ears.
I didn’t even realize how badly I missed the attention of a woman. And not just any woman. The woman I’ve glued my attention to from the moment I saw her.
The woman who’s thawed my icy heart in a matter of weeks.
Heartless. That’s what Talia called me in her letter. And I believed her.
I still do.
But it’s hard to deny the feeling in my chest right now. The ache. The heat.
It’s especially hard to deny the bulge in my pants. The one I’m grinding against Willa.
That part does have me feeling like a teenager.
She moans, hiking a leg up at my waist, opening herself to rub back against me, and I take that opportunity to swipe my tongue into her mouth, to shape my fingers into a fist in her hair.
To go with the intensity of the moment, even though I thought I could keep it sweet and slow. That’s the thing about Willa. She doesn’t strike me as the sweet and slow type of girl.