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“It’s a crying shame,” he replied, smoothing his thumb back and forth over my lower lip. “I could be kissing these peachy lips all night.”
This close, his blue stare was reawakening places in my body, and my breasts grew heavy, and the nipples went as tight as rubber bands. My breathing grew choppy as he snaked his hand up and around to my cheekbone.
“Your lower lip is as ripe as Georgia plum,” he dragged his thumb over the mound. “I can’t wait to feel these lips wrapped around me again.”
His dirty words spiked my simmering lust, and I wrapped my fingers around his firm hand. His hand was broad, rough skin, tanned from the sun and sprinkled with faint hair. I turned his hand over and ran my thumb over his palm, tracing the lines as if I could read our future from them.
Damn it, I wanted his touch again, feeling his hands coast over my body another time. I examined his hand. I murmured, “You know, my daddy used to tell me I could find all I needed to know about a man by his hands.”
“Is that so, sweetheart?” his voice was a husky rumble. “So, what is mine tellin’ you?”
“You’re not afraid of hard work,” I replied. “You said, by the strength of your hands and the sweat of your brow, you will make it. You don’t feel comfortable in an office, and you don’t let people do your work for you so you can enjoy the profits. You rope with the best of ‘em.”
“That’s right,” he replied, switching our hands and grasping both of mine. “Have you ever been tied down, tethered to a bed while your lover takes his fill of you?”
“No,” I replied, feeling very uncomfortable and interested at the same time. “I haven’t tried that before.”
“Do you want to?” he asked, gripping my hands and fixing a tight seal around my wrists with his fingers so that they felt like manacles. Something zipped right through me.
The energy snapping between us pulled our mouths together for a hot, lust-filled kiss. Fiery desire ignited in my belly as he ran his tongue along mine, and his tongue plunged boldly inside. He kissed me as if he owned me, and his unapologetic possession sent a singing sweetness through my blood. Instinctively, I followed his lead, letting him in deeper, meeting his tongue with mine.
John pulled, sucking a breath. “Christ. You’ll make me come in my pants like a twelve-year-old boy.” He then pierced me with a long look. “I want to fuck you so badly.”
I wanted the same; I wanted him…but not here.
“Another time,” I whispered, touching his stubbly cheek. “But for now, I need to go home, cowboy.”
He sighed, leaned in, and angled his head, nose brushing mine. My lungs filled with his scent—leather, spiced musk, and sweaty man. He was all the things I thought embodied the perfect cowboy.
John nuzzled against me, and I let my eyes slip shut as he hugged me tight. I couldn’t help but melt with how his hard chest pressed against mine and his biceps flexed.
“Rayna?” he said so quietly.
“Yes?” I opened my eyes to find his hovering an inch away.
“It’s on.” He kissed me.
* * *
That night, after I’d stepped into my shower in the modest cottage the school had offered me, I tilted my head back under the shower.
Mr. John Maxwell was thunder to my senses. Though I’d been born and raised around cowboys—my father had once had a small operation—I’d never met a cowboy like John. The men my dad had on the peach farm way out in Fredericksburg had all been old and shuffling; some others were young and gangly…but John was another thing altogether.
There was no denying the man was sexy and charming, and even though I would never have a wild fling with a cowboy, it didn’t mean I couldn’t look and appreciate. And with that cowboy’s case, I could appreciate plenty. He was tall, drop-dead gorgeous, with solid shoulders, cut biceps, a defined torso, and long, sturdy legs that ended in dark brown work boots.
I was sure he was a man used to getting any woman he wanted. I bet half of my middling bank account.
I knew his two beautiful daughters were like night and day. His youngest, in grade three, was a shy little girl who ducked her head and stuck her nose into a book, while his older one was outspoken and played touch football better than a Pop Warner Rookie.
I stepped out, dried off, moisturized, and dressed. Putting my hair up in a grab clip, I left to heat my leftover dinner, and then, even though I did not take work home, this issue with Sam had me invested.
It worried me when a young girl acted out without a clear explanation, and while Harper had given us a clue, I wondered if there was more to it. We would be in the dark about the root problem until Sam or one of her friends confessed what had happened.
While my foot heated in the oven, I flipped open Sam’s file to look for something—but found none. Her grades were all A’s and B+’s; there were no records of her reporting being bullied and no marks about her bullying others.
There was nothing there.
“Just when I thought this would be easy…” I mumbled.
