Page 91 of Wilder

I knew what he was saying underneath all of that: me keeping a level head when Pelly was involved wasn’t easy. And while that was true, there wasn’t much else I could do in the meantime to help move the process along quicker.

We were moving on other people’s timelines, forced to sit on the sidelines until someone called us back in.

I was only keeping myself in check because I needed to, or else I was going to drown myself in the deep end.

“Learned from the best,” I teased.

Wilder let out a soft snort, gently tracing one of his thumbs along my cheek in a nonsense pattern. Just the whisper of a touch, barely there, burning all the same. Sinking deep into my skin like the marks on my neck that I had hidden under the collar of my jacket like another prized secret.

“I don’t know about that,” he replied.

Being this close to him so soon after yesterday was making my head spin.

We were too out in the open for me to do what I really wanted: drop down to my knees and pry apart the fly of his pants to get my hands on his cock again.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since yesterday, imaging him twitching in my grip again while I watched his face twist up in pleasure from handling him. Those sharp intakes of breath, his rough, desperate sounding groans that had filled the office like a prayer—I wanted that again.

Badly.

Even if we managed to trap ourselves inside the shed, I doubted it was soundproof enough to keep anyone wandering past from hearing what we were doing. No doubt wanting to check on the grunts and growls that would be heard filling up the small space in no time.

So, I did the next best thing.

I leaned into his touch, turned my head just enough in his hands to catch his thumb between my lips and suck it into my mouth. The digit was salty on my tongue, calluses rough and scratchy against my taste buds.

Wilder drew in a quick pull of air, his entire body growing rigid.

“Asher...”

I glanced at him, lowering my lashes just enough to see through them. “Mm?”

His free hand flexed around my jaw. “You’re startin’ trouble.”

My lips quirked around his finger.

I’d noticed something back in that office—back when he’d had me pinned down and was doing whatever he wanted to me.

The more aroused he got, the more that southern drawl kicked in.

It was barely there most days, softened by years traveling around for auctions, negotiating deals with other out-of-state breeders, and dealing with audiences outside of this part of Texas that didn’t carry the same cadence in their speech.

When he was worked up, though?

Losing himself in the moment?

That drawl slid right back in. Like honey dripping off the edge of a spoon.

It got me going so bad, a new kink being birthed right there in that office with each stretched out syllable that came tumbling out of his mouth, the twang catching along the edges of his words right along with his quickly unraveling restraint.

I needed more so badly it was making my pants strain.

What would he sound like, cursing under his breath, while I drew his cock into my mouth?

Had my lips wrapped around him tight and slid him deep down my throat until my nose was pressed up against his stomach?

I bet he could get me off just saying my name over and over again in that accent.

Only one way to test out that theory.