Covet (Sinful Secrets 3)

Something tugs behind my breastbone. I rub at it before swinging the hammer again.

“Used to have a buddy from down in Texas.”

For a moment, all the air is sucked out of the cave and I can’t get a breath, but then she’s smiling beside me, tucking her hair, which she just washed, into a bun atop her head. “Did he or she have goats there?”

“I don’t know. It was a friend from Carogue,” I manage.

But I realize I do know. I went to Nate’s family’s place a couple times, and I never saw goats—although I guess that doesn’t mean they didn’t have some.

“Did he wear a cowboy hat?”

Another steady breath. “He did. He liked them Stetsons,” I drawl.

“Did he speak like that? Do they speak improperly, as in caricature?”

“Texans?” I shrug. “Sometimes, for effect. Most of them know the difference, though.”

I hear her make a soft, pained sound when she swings her arm, and I reach for her without thinking. She recoils, and I step back.

“Sorry.” I rub my forehead, which is throbbing. That was stupid.

She folds her arms and gives me a look that’s hung somewhere between a frown and a glare. “Was that a sneak attack?”

I shake my head, letting a breath out. “Used to locker rooms.”

Her blank look lets me know she’s got no clue what that means. “Have you ever seen a locker room?”

“I have—in the movie Carrie.”

That makes me laugh, which makes her glare. “Anyway.” I bring my hands together. “Locker rooms are full of guys stretching and getting dressed, undressed, taping themselves up, just fucking around.” I wince when she does; now I know what bothers her, and any swear word is on that list. “There’s not a bunch of space that’s yours. You want someone’s attention, you just knock their shoulder or give them a swat.”

“Is this your way of calling me a bro again?” Her mouth curves up into a smile that makes my dick hurt, and I shrug. “Too good to be my bro?”

“Of course.” She rolls her eyes, and I frown at her right arm. “Where’re you hurting?”

She rubs a strand of hair back off her forehead and says, “Everywhere.” Now that I’m looking closely, I realize she looks tired as hell.

I hold my own sore arm out, massaging the inside of my forearm with my free hand. “Is it more down here, or more up here?” I squeeze my triceps.

“There,” she says softly.

“So stretch your arms above your head like this, right?” I stretch mine toward the ceiling, bending them so I don’t touch it. “Keep your hand closed and reach back like you want to grab the back of your neck. Then with your other hand, lightly press the side of your elbow.”

I demonstrate for her, feeling almost sick with joint pain as my triceps pull.

Finley shuts her eyes, looking relieved, and I resist an impulse to tweak her chin. When she looks at me again, her face is relaxed.

“Wow, that did help. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“I suppose you’re well versed in such things,” she says, at the same moment I’m saying, “You want to use your other arm more, too, if you can.”

She switches the rock to her left arm.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks.

“Little bit of both.”