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It’s too late for that. I’m here.
He steps out onto the porch and crosses his arms over the broadest chest I’ve ever seen. His jaw tightens and I think I see a faint glimmer of something like amusement in his face.
“Does your dog bite?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
He whistles once and the dog sits.
“She won’t bite,” he says. “Myself…I can’t promise anything.”
My breath hitches. His voice is deep with a hint of gravel. Just as I remembered it. The corner of his mouth turns up and he steps down from the porch, clicking his fingers for the dog to follow. It sprints up ahead and sits directly before me.
I extend my hand. She licks it and her tail wags in the dust.
“She’s pretty,” I say, petting her silky head. “What’s her name?”
He pauses a few steps away. “Big Dog.”
I jerk my head up, but before I can speak, I’m overwhelmed by how close he is to me. I can see all the little details of his body. The scar on his knuckles. The faint lines by his eyes. The droplet of water hanging in the waves. The thick hairs on his chest, between the open buttons of his Henley.
He looks big, warm, and solid.
I shiver and his eyes dart down. His gaze is like the brush of hot fingertips. Lava pools in my veins and pushes blood down towhere I feel it the most. For a shameful second, the last time I touched myself fills my brain.
I thought about him. Why? I have no idea. Perhaps because I’m so touch starved.
But I thought about him, I fantasized about him turning me around and bending me over the table.
Flipping my skirt.
Dragging his rough palm up my thigh. Slapping my bare ass hard enough I cry out. Peeling my panties from my wet pussy and pushing them down before his fingers sink—
“You alright?” he asks.
I jump. My body feels oddly sensitive. Heat radiates from my face and I shake my hair back, trying to pretend I was just lost in petting Big Dog’s head.
“You should name her something else,” I say.
He smiles. It’s a polite, short curve, like he doesn’t know how to do it properly.
“Really?”
“Big Dog implies a Small Dog,” I say.
He jerks his head, holding out his hand to point the way to the house. Heart thumping, I follow him up the path and enter the front hallway. The ceilings are tall and the floor is dark wood. Probably harvested from the ranch. I scan the decor as I follow him down the hall, appreciating how tasteful it is. Either he or an interior designer somewhere has a good eye.
He pauses and I almost crash into him. We’re at the edge of a spacious living room with ceilings nearly twenty feet tall. Gerard leans in and whistles. From the couch comes a grunt and a tiny black dog that looks like a fox jumps to the floor. It’s graying and stiff, but it manages to make its way to us.
“That’s Small Dog,” he says. “He’s got one foot in the grave.”
I kneel and Small Dog lets me scratch his chin. “You could give them real names.”
“Do you name all your horses and dogs?”
“I don’t have a dog.” I look up at him. “But I name my horses. Every single one.”
He smiles, that polite smirk. “Why?”
I straighten. “All creatures great and small, you know. They deserve to be noticed.”
