I let out a little moan, quiet, involuntary. His nose and lips trace my neck and shoulders but he’s not kissing, just breathing, hovering over me, hot exhales sending shivers down my spine. How did this man turn fixing a fence into something so erotic? Every staple he drives in, he grunts and thrusts a little into me, subtle, controlled, but enough to make me clench, wetness pooling between my thighs. I haven’t felt him inside me in months. I need it. I’m craving it. He’s ruined me for anyone else and he knows it.
When he’s done stapling, he drops the gun in the grass. His hand comes up and grips my neck, firm, possessive, thumb pressing against my pulse.
“What you do to me, Layla… no woman has ever come close. Seattle is not far enough to stay away from the things I want to do to you. Do you understand?”
I moan, low, needy, head falling back against his shoulder.
“Oh, god Cole. Please, I want you.”
He grips my neck a little harder, thumb stroking my jaw, bites his lip and groans in my ear, the sound vibrating through me. Then he pulls away, steps back, puts his hat on, starts walking toward the barn… leaving me soaked and wanting him more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.
Chapter 27
She’s love me...not
Cole
I have to walk away. She has to want this, she has to say she wants me. I’ve told her. Isn’t saying “stay” enough? Isn’t “I want you to stay” basically me saying… I’m not going to say it. Not until she does. My boots crunch hard on the dry grass, each step kicking up dust that sticks to my jeans and the sun still hot on my neck.
The hammer’s still in my hand, heavy, warm from use and I can feel the phantom heat of her body against mine, the way her breath hitched when I gripped her neck. My dick’s still half-hard, pulse throbbing in my ears, but I keep moving toward the barn like distance will cool the fire she just lit.
“Cole!” She yells, stomping behind me, her voice sharp, cracking with frustration, boots slapping the ground faster than mine.
I won't stop. Not yet.
“I’ve had just about enough of this,” she grunts, closer now, breath coming quickly.
We are walking past ranch hands as I walk into the barn, they’re all giving me the look like I’m in trouble with my woman. A woman that’s not mine, at least not yet. Tools clank as they pretend to work, eyes sliding sideways, smirks hidden behind hats. The barn smells like hay and leather and old wood, it’s cooler in here, shadowed, the scent of motor oil from the tractor lingering in the corners.
“Enough of what?” I ask her, still not turning around. That’s when she grabs my arm, fingers tight around my bicep, nails digging in just enough to sting.
“Stop walking away from me,” she spits, voice low, furious, trembling at the edges.
I finally turn. Look at her straight in the eyes, those big brown eyes glassy, cheeks flushed red, braid messy from the wind. Come on, Layla. Say it.
“What are you tired of?” I ask, voice rough, low.
“You and me. Whatever game it is you’re playing. I’m done with it. You toy me around constantly, kissing me then not. Acting like you want me then walking away. What is this? Are we children? What are you doing!? Do you want this or not!? Because Cole…” she stops. Not finishing her sentence. Her chest rises and falls fast, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
“I told you I wanted you to stay,” I say low so nobody can hear, trying to get her to stop yelling, voice barely above a whisper, gravelly from the dust and the ache in my throat.
“But what does that mean for us—”
“Ah hell, Layla.” I shout, louder than I mean to, the sound bouncing off the barn rafters. Her eyes get big, startled, but she doesn’t back down.
“You’re not as dumb as you play to be. You know what it means. You think I would just build a pool, bring you breakfast, listen to hours of rambling in bed, bring you books, hell, what more do you want from me? What more is it going to take to get you to understand that I–”
“I thought you liked doing that stuff for me,” she says, almost pitiful, taken aback, voice small now.
“I do. That’s the whole point, Layla. Jesus Christ.” I twist my body, turning away from her, hands flexing, chest tight, fist clenched so hard my knuckles are white.
“Say something other than you want me to stay.” she says—voice cracking, stepping closer.
“You know what I want,” I say back, rough, low, not looking at her.
“Say it,” she says.
“Layla.”
