"I'm not arguing?—"
"You're a little bit arguing."
"I'm just—" He tugged the neckline of my dress down and put his mouth on my collarbone and I lost the thread entirely. "Okay. Not arguing."
"Good girl."
His hands found the hem of my dress and pushed it up, both palms skating up the outside of my thighs, and he turned me—smooth, decisive—so I was facing the hay bale, his chest against my back, his mouth at my ear.
"Lean forward," he said.
"Gage—"
"Millie." His hands tightened on my hips. "Lean forward."
I leaned forward.
My hands hit the hay and his came around me instantly—one spreading flat against my stomach, pulling me back against him, the other pushing the dress up further until it was bunched around my waist. He got his fingers into my underwear and pulled it down in one motion, efficient and unhesitating, and I heard myself make a sound that had nothing dignified in it at all.
"That's it," he said, low. "Stay just like that."
His hand came back up, sliding under the front of the dress, pushing up the fabric until he could get his palm against my breast—no bra, same as last night, which he seemed to be filing away as a personal preference—and he squeezed, slow and thorough, his thumb finding my nipple and rolling it until I arched back against him.
"Oh—"
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
He did it again, harder, and I pressed back into him and felt exactly how much he wanted this, which was considerable.
"Been thinking about these all day too," he said against my neck, his fingers tugging, pulling, drawing it out until I was squirming against him. "That dress doesn't leave a man a lot of room to concentrate."
"That's—" I gasped as he pinched lightly. "That's not my fault."
"Didn't say it was." He switched to the other side, giving it the same slow thorough attention, and I gripped the hay bale and tried to remember how breathing worked. "Just stating facts."
His other hand moved down between my thighs from the front and I stopped being able to state anything at all.
"Soaked," he said, and he sounded almost reverent about it. "Every time." His fingers moved slow and deliberate, learning the shape of things, and I pushed back against him and he let me—let me work against his hand, his chest solid and immovable behind me, his arm banded across my ribs holding me flush against him. "That's mine," he said. "All of this is mine. You understand that?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"Yours," I breathed. "It's yours, Gage, please?—"
"Please what."
"You know what?—"
His fingers stilled.
I made a truly undignified noise.
"Say it, darlin'."
"Inside me," I said. "Please. I need you inside me."
He made a low sound against my neck that I felt everywhere, and then his hand moved away and I heard his belt, his zipper,and then he was there—pushing in from behind, one hand splayed across my stomach holding me exactly where he wanted me, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave a mark, and he seated himself fully and held still.
