Excerpt!
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he said, his hands wrist-deep in muck as he tried to brace his weight and lift himself off of me.
“It’s okay,” I said, breathless from the fall.
The expression on his face as he lay over me was pure horror. I was pretty sure he expected a different reaction than the smile I gave him. Taking advantage, I scooped mud into my hands where they rested at my sides. I kept my smile in place and my eyes on his, hoping he hadn’t noticed my covert movements. When I’d gathered a good layer, I brought my hands up and pressed them to his cheeks, slowly smearing the thick mud down his ruggedly handsome face.
Ford went perfectly still and I wondered if I’d gone too far. Very slowly, his hands came up and pressed against my neck, smearing a layer of mud down my throat and onto my shoulders.
I gasped.
“Now we’re even,” he said with a grin.
My pulse sped. My skin tingled where his fingers trailed. He noticed my reaction and slowed, taking his time as his hands travelled down the length of my arm. Somewhere along the way the movement turned sensual, the mud forgotten—or maybe it only added to the moment. When he reached my hands, he took them in his own and lifted them until my arms were locked loosely around his neck. Then, he let go and trailed his hands up my shoulders and throat, stroking my cheek and tangling in my hair.
He leaned closer, but it wasn’t fast enough for my tastes. I raised my head and brought my lips to his, meeting him halfway. His mouth was warm and hard against mine, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I parted my lips and let my tongue skim the inside of his lip. With a growl, he pressed down, crushing his mouth to mine. It was empowering, knowing that small act on my part had removed some sort of barrier. I wondered what else he was holding back—and if I had the power to unleash it.
The hot new farmhand that just sat down at my dinner table is the definition of why I swore off relationships.
He’s smart, charming, and just as handsome as he is sure of himself.
He is exactly the type I want nothing to do with—not as a fling and certainly not as something more.
Not that it matters what I want since he’s leaving in a few months, anyway.
Hooking up would be a recipe for heartbreak.
So, why do I find myself staring into those hypnotic blue eyes and longing for the feel of those sun-kissed hands?
No matter what happens next, I swear to myself I won’t ask him to stay.
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Violet Stafford is the author of small town, steamy contemporary romance. As her other persona, she writes bestselling paranormal romance as Heather Hildenbrand. Both versions of her love a cold beer on a hot day, hanging with her goldendoodle, Luna, and motorcycle rides on back roads.
She grew up in the woods and loves stories about creeks and farms and mud and true love. And she’s utterly terrified of slugs.
Find out more about her books at violetstafford.com.
thanks for sharing!
ReplyDeleteThis sounds like a book that I would enjoy.
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