Chapter Seven
His miles of sinuous flesh, weather-beaten from the elements, still felt smooth and soft. Unlike last night, she had time to drink in his subtle beauty. He really was chiseled like the proverbial Roman god. She found her finger lingering on his tattoo. Inked just high enough for a shirt to cover it. A rebel streak Mr. Harvard here could easily cover with a white collar or T-shirt alike. Yet here he was, farming.
She felt him shudder beneath her touch. Felt him lean forward a little more, saw goose bumps rise on his skin. Felt his fingers come up to her shoulders, trailing down the slopes to her elbows, then back up again.
She shivered. Her gaze fluttered up to his dark brown ones, which twinkled with desire and pinned her beneath him. He wedged her thighs apart a bit wider with his hips, which hiked her skirt up to her hips.
Quiet, but pushy. This man liked to be in charge.
Heat jumped through her. Her fingers skimmed down his trail, dusting over his navel, to toy with the buckle straining at the top of his fly. His mouth quirked knowingly, and as she took a shaky breath, she stirred her finger in the air to him, indicating to turn around.
He slipped around between her legs at her command, brushing her thighs with his denim and sending shockwaves rippling up and down her legs, giving her his broad back…
Concern cut through the haze of hormones. Several cuts gouged his back. A piece of pebbled glass was still embedded in his skin. He was downplaying this, acting tough, which was sort of boyish and cute. She smiled. Yet the eye-catcher was a ragged, long-healed welt transecting his back, lopsided over one shoulder blade and extending across to the top of his other shoulder, as if the weight of the world had once crushed him.
“Ty, what happened to you?” she breathed, gripping his waist to hold him steady.
He shrugged. “Glass from your truck sprayed through the conduit.”
“No. This.”
Her finger trailed across the welted striation that had stretched and faded over the years. He stiffened. Once more, his muscles jumped beneath her touch, but this time, it seemed like more of a flinch.
“Old cut,” he deadpanned.
“Cut? This is no cut. Did someone do this to you?”
He huffed a laugh, downplaying everything again, but she was starting to understand his mannerisms, and there was more to this story. “Just some…trouble I got into.”
“You? Trouble?” she teased, though the concern still hung heavy off her words and his remark sounded like a bad lie. That in no way answered her question. “You line your boots up with a ruler as if boot cops are going to put you in jail and hide this tattoo beneath your sleeve. Your house is impeccable. Your truck is what, forty years old, and still mint.”
“Yeah, I know the Stetson don’t fit,” he added. “Trust me, I made my fair share of mistakes.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never forgotten a single one.”
“I learn my lessons. Like I said, I’ve been fixing my family’s shit for years. Especially my own mistakes.”
*
He bit histongue. Her concern seemed so genuine, the truth of that scar had almost come out. “Why don’t you just doctor me up and not worry about it,” he replied to her introspective tone.
He much preferred her hands on him and her naturally teasing personality. Much preferred the stoking of heat and how her touch made him seem to forget all his responsibilities. He didn’t want to think about the monitors beeping. The shouting. How he’d finally snapped. The shame he’d felt for not being there to protect his kids, his rage at Isabella’s final, selfish straw.
He shivered as Heather’s finger caressed his welt. Remained stoic even though his every nerve screamed for satiation beneath her roving touch, as she actually did pry pebbles of glass out of his skin. Bit his cheek through the sting of cotton balls soaked in isopropyl zapping like wasp stings. It felt…good, to let someone baby him when normally he was the one doing the babying. He leaned his rear into her, felt her thighs give way in kind, smiled as her hand on his waist held him firmly, as her other hand scrubbed and cleansed each wound and rummaged in his first aid kit. No doubt the kit would look like a warzone at the end of this.
The warm touch on his bare skin made his nerves jump happily beneath her fingertips. His senses were on high alert as he felt her breath on his back, soothing the wounds, felt her thighs shimmy around his rear as she scrubbed the cuts, triggering sparks of lust through his blood.
“There,” she said, her hand at his waist giving him a subtle squeeze that sent heat straight to his dick and swelled in his stones.
He inflated his chest on a slow drag of air to master his body’s reaction to the most sensual injury he’d ever sustained, and swiveled around to face her, his hips twisting through her thighs again, as tingling shot up his skin. He needed to get to work with his guys and build a game plan for repairs, needed to get Heather installed in her cabin, but all he wanted to do was remain here, in this little slice of fantasy.
He looked down at her, chest to chest, his front nestled close to that crux between her thighs again that he couldn’t stop thinking about sinking into.
“Thanks,” he said, and took her hands, peeling her gloves off for her.
“Welcome,” she breathed back.
He held her fingers, examined the green nail polish. He furrowed his brow, smiling. “Why the green paint?”