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Unsure what more I should say, I finish soaking the last of her wounds and grab a tube of antibiotic cream off the counter.
“I was thinking—” The first swipe of ointment stops her with a sharp hiss.
Fuck. These little noises she makes… I could listen to them on repeat.
“Maybe you should have Penelope bring the kids from the shelter out here to help you with the barn,” she finishes.
“What makes you think I need help?”
“You don’t, but they might,” she retorts, but it loses heat as she watches my hand travel lower. “This ranch is the perfect spot to let them exercise and, I don’t know, do something stimulating.”
Though her sudden interest surprises me, I murmur, “Not a bad idea, slayer.”
Contrary to popular belief, I consider myself a gentleman—a real noble guy if anyone cared to ask—but the second she takes her eyes off mine, my gaze falls to the mouthwatering peaks teasing me below.
Those lashes pop up not even a second later to catch me ogling them.
“Whatcha looking at, vamp,” she pops the ‘p’ light enough to stir my blood.
A few lousy inches separate us as blood pounds lower.
“I…”Have no words, apparently.
There’s not a single thought bouncing around my skull other than putting my mouth directly on the spot where my stare burns.
“You?” she asks throatily.
An ear-shatteringclangricochets around the bathroom, jolting us apart. Heather grabs the edge of the counter with a shriek as Jango pads after the metal bowl he dropped on the tile.
He plops his butt down between us before releasing a low, patheticwoof.
She takes two boundary-erecting steps away from me and yanks her torn shirt together.
What the fuck am I doing?
“Here.” I grab the bottom of my shirt, shirk it overhead, and then toss it at her.
I scoop up Jango’s bowl, but I don’t miss the way her eyes flit across my bare torso before zeroing in on the barbell piercings through each of my nipples.
Heather sputters as she holds the shirt away from her body. “What is this?”
“A shirt. Wear it.”
I step out of the bathroom while thoughts of her in nothing but my shirt have me glaring at the bed. God, I need to get a grip. I’m acting like a horny pre-teen instead of the twenty-eight year old man I am.
“I don’t need it,” she argues.
I stop at the doorway, half turning to cock a brow at the tattered remains of her top.
She grumbles, mutters, and spews complaints, but a ridiculous amount of male pride pricks my chest when she finally tugs it on.
“Satisfied?”
Hardly.
“If my satisfaction is what you want, then you can start by getting some proper work attire.”
The intentional vulgarity has her fuming as she shoulders past me. “Thanks for reminding me why I find you so infuriating.”
