Page 3 of The Farmer
“You can put me down now.” Her words flutter against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening chill.
“I could.” I tighten my arms around her, and her mouth forms an ‘o’. “But do you want me to?”
Her brows twitch upward, her breath coming in uneven little puffs against my skin. She looks confused and conflicted, those expressive features broadcasting every thought that crosses her mind. Then she bites her bottom lip, worrying the pink flesh between her teeth in a way that makes my pulse thunder in my ears.
I know it's not supposed to be seductive—it's clearly a nervous habit—but my caveman brain and body don't know thedifference. The sight of those perfect white teeth pressing into that soft flesh shorts out what's left of my rational thinking.
Without thinking—because thinking clearly isn't something I'm capable of right now—I reach up. My rough, calloused fingers brush her chin, and I tug her lip free with my thumb. Her lip pops from between her teeth, red and wet from the pressure, and my thumb lingers at the edge of her mouth, tracing the tender flesh before I can stop myself.
Paris sucks in a soft, sharp breath, her eyes as wide as saucers. Her breathing becomes ragged, and just as she’s about to open her mouth to say something, the skies open up.
Rain dumps like a flipped bucket, cold and sudden, slapping through the corn and soaking us in seconds.
“Shit,” I say, shifting her in my arms. “Hang on.”
I carry her through the field, boots slipping once on the muddy path, her arms tight around my neck. The small white farmhouse glows ahead, porch lights flickering warm and yellow through the curtain of rain.
Warmth rushes out to meet us as I reach the door and push it open with my shoulder. Inside, I set her down gently, but the moment she pulls back, I freeze.
Her shirt.
That soaked white T-shirt clings like a second skin. Thin cotton molds to her body, hugging every dip and curve. Her chest rises and falls, nipples visibly taut beneath the fabric, her skin flushed from the cold and the rush and maybe something else.
My cock jerks to attention before I can stop it.
“Y-you w-were p-probably wondering why I was crying.”
I couldn’t say anything if I wanted to. I’m just so damn busy adjusting my pants. My sense of equilibrium has shifted, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“I got lost in the maze, sure, but there’s this guy…”
White-hot fury floods in my veins, and I snap my head back to her. “Did he hurt you?”
Paris waves both hands and shakes her head. “Not in that way, no. He’s my boss at the magazine where I work. He’s been on to me ever since I said no to a coffee date. And he keeps giving me assignments designed to make me quit. This was the last straw. I was supposed to cover a major woman-owned brand opening, but he sent me here instead. When I got lost, I just kind of lost it.” She looks at me through her long, wet lashes and smiles shyly. “Sorry for dumping this on you.”
“That’s okay.” Inside, I’m fuming. Who the fuck is this asshole? When I get my hands on him, I would— wait. Wait a damn minute. Why am I reacting like this? Where’s this protective instinct coming from? Shit. I’m getting whiplash from all the emotions pinging through me ever since I first saw her. “I’ll go grab you some clothes.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
My only response is a grunt. There’s pounding at the base of my skull, and I can’t seem to untangle the rioting emotions inside me. I grab the cleanest, most decent clothes I have in my cabinet. An oversized T-shirt and cotton pajamas.
I hand them over without a word, pointing to the bathroom down the hall. Paris takes the clothes, eyes never leaving mine. Our fingers brush, and an electric jolt slides down my spine.
And then—God help me—she lifts her soaked shirt. Right in front of me.
Time stops as though I’m falling under a spell.
I see skin, a lot of it. Smooth, soft, water droplets trailing down. Her bra’s white lace, nearly see-through. My throat tightens. I should look away, give her space, because I’m definitely acting like a creep.
“Bathroom’s that way,” I say, spinning around so fast I almost trip over my own feet. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get coffee going.”
I flee to the kitchen like a coward, my skin feeling hot and tight.
My heartbeat’s out of control, hammering against my ribs like it wants to break out. What the hell is happening to me? I don’t do this. I don’t react to people like this. I don’t let strangers into my house and then get hard over them changing clothes.
But she’s not just anyone, is she?
In less than an hour, Paris has lodged under my skin like a splinter I don’t want to pull out.
