Page 8 of Some Like 'Em Burly
Her mouth twists. “Sorry.” A fingertip traces over my cheekbone, and fuck, I can’t think straight. Can’t do anything except stare at her pursed lips, chest heaving. “I’m so clumsy, I swear to god. I never mean any harm, but I still wreak havoc.”
Not with me. I can handle a stray elbow or two, no problem. I’m more than built for it. I’d tell her, too, but she’s still talking, leaning so close that her breath mists warm against my cheeks.
“I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me, Rhys Evans. You’re like this big granite boulder of a man, so stoic and unreadable, and the last time I tried to flirt with you, you shut me down so hard.”
What? I didnot.I wouldn’t. She was flirting with me?When?
“Gwen—”
She keeps talking, speaking over me, and it’s messed up, but I’m proud. I love seeing her assert herself like this, her newfound confidence growing by the hour. “No, wait a minute. I need to say this. Because you’re touching my waist and smelling my hair and letting me sit in your lap. And if you’re just humoring me you need to cut it out, please, because my heart couldn’t stand that again. It really couldn’t.”
Fuck that. I plunge one hand into her wild hair, remembering too late that I’ll leave sooty marks on her again. Does it matter? She’s never going back to that farm, not if I get my way.
And Gwen is still talking, though her expression is glazed. “I know you’re older than me and I’ve caused you a lot of trouble, but those things don’t need to stop us, Rhys. Not if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.” After her little speech, my two words are paltry, but she lights up like the first stars glittering outside as night falls. Two arms snake around my neck.
“Well, then.”
When she sways toward me, the soft swells of her breasts crush against my chest. And fuck, I’ve thought of this so many times. Wondered what sounds she’d make; how warm she’d feel; how she’d taste.
My lips part.
Her eyes flutter shut.
I lean in closer. Closer.Closer.
So close that her warmth scorches my front, like standing over the flames in my furnace, and I’m coiled so tight that my teeth ache. Her hair is soft between my fingers, and her weight is perfect against my thighs, and I can’t help the rough groan from crawling up my throat.
It’s happening. I’m going to kiss her.
“Fuck. Gwen—”
A fist hammers on my front door, shaking the wood in its frame. Gwen leaps back with a squeak, her eyes shocked wide, and only my hold keeps her from toppling onto the floor.
“It’s him,” she whispers, as though I don’t know. “My father’s here.”
“Lucky me,” I say flatly. She scrambles off my lap and my cock aches as I push to my feet.
My steps thud against the kitchen tiles, and I square my shoulders before reaching for the door.
I was so close. So close to tasting his daughter.
And I won’t deny it any more.
Gwen
Here are some things I’ve daydreamed about doing with the valley’s stern blacksmith: baking cookies. Walking through the hills. Feeding him freshly picked blackberries, my fingertips pushing past his lips and his tongue licking the juice away.
Watching him hammer away in his forge, sweat sliding down his temples, then peeling his shirt off and licking his damp skin. Tasting his salt.
Dropping to my knees on the chilled stone floor, tugging at his belt buckle, and feeling his hungry gaze eat me alive.
You know, normal stuff. But you know what never made the list? Facing my father downagainwith Rhys by my side, my rumpled hair and flushed cheeks both damning evidence of what we were about to do.
It goes about as well as you’d expect. Insults are hurled and threats are exchanged. At one point, Rhys tucks me behind his arm, blocking me bodily from my father’s sharp words and spitting anger.
He doesn’t send me away, though. I like that about Rhys. He’s protective, yes, but he doesn’t keep me out of things that affect me.
