Page 89 of The Goat Next Door

“You’re late, Brooks,” I say, though my heart is already hammering against my ribs. “I actually started to think maybe I’d misunderstood all those hints you dropped at the bakery. I figured maybe you just wanted to make sure Marge knew Sophie was away for the night, and that was that.”

His shadow detaches from the wall, bridging the distance between us in two heavy, deliberate steps.

Before I can draw another breath, his hands settle at my lower back, guiding me toward him.

“Traffic,” he says. He leans down, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. “And I don’t like being told I’m late when I’ve spent the last six hours trying to keep my head on straight while I thought about nothing but your mouth.”

I let out a shaky breath, finally turning in his grip to face him. His eyes are dark, focused on me with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m standing under a spotlight.

“Is that right? You were thinking about my mouth? Maybe if you’d said something while we were at the counter, I wouldn’t have had to assume you were just being your usual, grumpy, silent self.”

“If I had said something at the counter, the entire town would know exactly what I crave,” he says. “And we both know that’s not an option. You’re lucky I have any restraint at all, city girl.”

“Restraint? Is that what we’re calling it?” I tease, letting a playful smirk tug at my lips. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like a man who’s one second away from doing something very, very reckless.”

He lets out a low sound in his throat and pulls me even closer, his hand sliding up my back to splay firmly between my shoulder blades, pinning me to him.

“Don’t push me. I’ve been holding back all day. I’ve had to watch you smile at every man who walked into that bakery, and all I could think about was dragging you out of there and locking you in my house where no one else can see you.”

“Possessive, are we?” I laugh. “I like it. It’s very caveman of you. Very rustic.”

“Stop,” he warns, tilting his head, his nose brushing against my cheek. “You don’t have a clue what you do to me. You walk around that town, all glitter and sunshine, acting like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to every man in a ten-mile radius.”

“Maybe I don’t care about the other men,” I whisper. “Maybe I only care about you.”

He sighs, a ragged sound, and lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his torso before I even realize what’s happening. He carries me toward the sofa, his movements purposeful and heavy.

When he sets me down, he doesn’t let go of my hips. His hands slip beneath the hem of my shirt, his fingertips grazing my waist as he slowly lifts the fabric over my head. He tosses it onto the arm of the sofa before his gaze settles on the lace of my bra.

He traces the curve of one strap before easing it from my shoulder, then the other. His hand slides behind my back to free the clasp, and I lift just enough for him to pull the bra away. He lets it fall beside my shirt, his eyes lingering on me for a long, silent moment before he leans in, brushing his nose lightly against my breast.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, almost like the words slipped out by accident.

I let out a breathy hum.

“Mm. I know,” I tease, tugging at his hair.

He lets out a low sound against my skin that’s dangerously close to losing composure.

“You think you’re in control?” he says. “Keep teasing me like this and you’re going to end up apologizing.”

“Keep dreaming, Chief,” I respond. “You know, you’re awfully talkative for a man who’s supposed to be doing all the heavy lifting. Maybe you’ve forgotten how this works? The big, scary fireman is supposed to be hands-on, not lecturing.”

His hands drift lower, settling at the waistband of my shorts. He glances up at me, waiting.

I answer by lifting my hips.

He eases my shorts down my legs, taking my underwear with them before setting both neatly on the floor beside the sofa.

“Or is this, like, your thing?” I tease. “Talking me to death until I forget you’re actually kind of a prick?”

He smirks, entirely unfazed by my jab. He reaches down, his fingers finding my pussy, and slides one finger deep inside. “Christ, Emmy. You feel even better than I imagined.”

I let out a soft groan, my head falling back against the sofa cushion as his thumb circles my clit in slow, devastating strokes.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Say you’re sorry for calling me a prick.”

“Not a chance,” I gasp, a cheeky grin playing on my lips despite the haze of sensation. “You’re just an arrogant, overbearing prick, Brooks. That’s not an insult, it’s a fact. A very hot, annoying fact.”