Page 49 of Live, Ranch, Love

But neither of us move.

We just stand, beholding the fire, Wyatt’s hot breath against my hair, fingers still on my arms, tracing lines up and down. If I was letting myself be reckless again, I’d sink back into him further, allowing the intense heat of his body right now to diffuse throughout me. Or maybe I’d grab his arms and wind them around me so I’m completely in his embrace, like when we were dancing.

“God, this feels good,” Wyatt admits, assumedly talking about burning everything in the fire. His head dips closer to mine, and I swear he inhales slowly. Then, voice deep and hushed, like he’s telling me a secret, he says, “You make me feel good, Aurora Jones.”

All my self-control melts away and I can’t stop myself from confessing out loud what I’ve known for too long. “You make me feel pretty good too, Wyatt Hensley.”

twenty

Wyatt

Ihate it but I’m spending another evening scrolling through Aurora’s Instagram instead of reading the book I’d picked up. I always tell her I’m going to sit by the fire or on the couch diving into some history, but I barely get through a few pages without checking my phone, just to see her face.

Today was tough. I’d had enough to do on the ranch including tending to a sick heifer which always gets me down. Especially when you know you can’t afford the best medicine for them, and are basically just trying to keep them as well as possible until the infection gets them. Then Aurora confessed she’d been distracted by planning for a meeting with her agent tomorrow that she was stressed about and hadn’t got anywhere with finishing the last guesthouse. So, despite my splitting headache, I obviously jumped at the opportunity to help her, buzzing at the relief that swept through her eyes, knowing that was my doing.

As soon as we were done, Aurora announced she needed a long, hot bath. The image that flashed into my mind had all my blood rushing down south, making me feel like a stupid, horny teenager. After that, I hurried straight home, had a long, cold shower in contrast, cooked some food, and settled down with a whiskey and a book to distract myself.

But I am a weak, weak man these days.

And though I hate to admit that her silly wellness stuff works, after burning the clothes that reminded me of Holly the other night, I feel like my mind is completely free to think of nothing but Aurora.

It’s weird seeing this side of Aurora on her Instagram, which is so perfectly curated, but omits all the beautifully vulnerable parts of her. There’s more of the ranch on there now, including pictures of us ranchers doing yoga, regrettably. But there’s no evidence of the crumple of her freckled nose when she laughs and gets annoyed at me, or the way she nibbles her thumbnail when she’s thinking, or how she does a weird little dance when she’s happy about something.

Jesus. When did I become so obsessed with Aurora?

I should just go to bed.

I do one last check of my home feed, when Aurora suddenly posts a new photo.

And she’s holding a goddamn vibrator.

I have to do a double take, but I’m not mistaken—it’s a photo of her posing with a hot-pink bullet, beaming. Her hair is a little messy, and there’s a golden glow to her skin that screams post-orgasm. She’s obviously done that on purpose, and it turns me on far more than it should. I want to be the one who makes her look that way.

The caption reads:

Self-pleasure is a form of self-care! Whatever your relationship status, devoting time to your pleasure is proven to reduce stress and improve your self-confidence. And what better way to take care of your mental health than with an earth-shattering orgasm? I know Pinky here has definitely helped to ease some of my tension whilst I’ve been working hard in the States on the upcoming retreat. Rory xo.

My eyes run back to the name Pinky.

I thought that was the name of her teddy bear.

Has she been using Pinky up in that empty house, all alone, while I’ve literally been next door?

Hold on.

She told me about Pinky looking after her on the night she kissed me… Fuck, did she go and play with herself after kissing me? Was I sat on my bed that night, fisting my cock, imagining it was her lips around me, while she was finishing to the thought of me too?

God, my cock is straining against my sweatpants—

No.

I need to stop being so hopeful. That’s never helped me before.

That kiss was fake. She told me I was her friend.

Or… was that just a cover up? Because if she asked me what she meant to me, I’d lie and say a friend too. To save face. Just like I’ve been doing this whole time, pretending I’m not obsessed with her.

It’s that exact thought that has me tucking my boner up into my waistband and marching out the door, over to hers. The rational, sensible mind I pride myself on has been thrown out the window by my throbbing cock and wild, racing thoughts. By the agony I’ve felt around her, suddenly aware of how badly I want her when I have to be professional and just a goddamn friend.

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