Page 52 of Own the Eights
“Are you crying?” he asked, releasing her hands and cupping her face.
She sniffled. “It’s just very touching that you’ve overcome your fear of goats.”
His expression softened. “And all thanks to you, Georgiana.”
There it was. The low, sexy rumble of those four syllables that sent the butterflies in her belly into flight whenever he said her full name.
He stroked her cheek. “I probably reek of goat, but I really want to kiss you.”
He could have been marinating in skunk spray. It didn’t matter. She wanted it, too.
“I like the smell of baby goats,” she answered and pushed up onto her tiptoes.
Their lips met, but this time, it wasn’t the anger-infused Kama Sutra-inspired sexual melee that had erupted on her couch. This kiss was raw and honest. It spoke of weekends spent making love in a tangle of rumpled sheets and feather-soft pillows.
He pulled back and held her gaze. “Why does everything seem so possible when I look into those damn beautiful eyes of yours?”
Speechless. The girl who’d read thousands of books couldn’t find the words to respond. Luckily, nature had a plan. The wind shifted as the sky darkened, and with a crack of lightning and the far-off rumble of thunder, the gentle sprinkling turned into a downpour. With rain trailing down his chiseled cheekbones like something out of a Hallmark movie, he led her into the old barn.
“Wait here,” he said with a wide grin, then jogged back to his car.
What was happening? She trembled, and it wasn’t from the cool breeze that had blown in with the storm. Stress. It had to be stress. She craned her neck and watched as he opened the hatch on the SUV, pulled out a blanket, then sprinted back to her.
“I’ve got—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Emergency supplies in your car just in case you get into an accident or are left stranded?”
He nodded.
She felt her cheeks heat. “Me too. It’s just the kind of smart planning an eight would do.”
“Or a ten, who has to be ready for anything,” he countered.
“What are you ready for now?” she asked, her cheeks growing hotter.
He shook the blanket out and laid it on the ground. “You,” he replied and guided her down next to him on the faded plaid quilt.
As gently as he held the goats, he removed her clothing. His touch left hot, tingling trails on her body where his fingertips brushed against her bare skin. Naked, and strangely, not at all embarrassed to be laid out in her birthday suit, Jordan pulled his shirt off, folded it carefully into a neat square, then lifted her head and slid the makeshift pillow beneath it.
His gaze ravaged her body. “Fuck me,” he whispered, awe peppering the words.
She bit her lip. “I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m about to do.”
He kissed a line from her chin to her navel. “I hate to tell you this, Georgiana, but you’ve got the body of a ten.”
She released a breathy giggle. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not good at dirty talk.”
“Eights like dirty talk?” he purred against her skin.
She closed her eyes as he worked his way lower and kissed her inner thigh. “This eight likes it when you say her name.”
Had she said that out loud? She was prepared for him to give her crap about her admission, but he didn’t.
He hummed a little laugh against her thigh. “Georgiana Jensen, you’ve been hiding one killer body under those hideous cardigans.”
She threaded her fingers into his hair. She really should defend her love of cardigans, but it was hard to concentrate with the hottest guy on the planet planted between her legs.
“All I hear is blah, blah, blah, cardigan,” she said in a breathy sigh.
