There’s a long silence while he studies me. Then he turns and pulls a laundry basket from beside the doorway. He digs through the folded clothes for a moment, then holds up a black T-shirt that’s soft and faded, but clean.
“Take off your shirt.”
I slip it from my arms along with my ruined bra, not bothering to cover myself. He’s seen and touched it all.
“Arms up,” he says.
I do what he asks without thinking.
He slips the shirt over my head, guiding my arms through like I’m a child. The cotton is warm, smelling like soap and sun, and drapes low enough to hide everything.
“Better?” he asks.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
My voice still sounds wrecked. I ball up my bra and shirt and leave it on the bench.
“Good.” He nods, then jerks his head toward the door. “C’mon. Let me show you the rest.”
I follow him, breasts loose, my brain still ten miles behind my body.
What the hell just happened?
Wade didn’t force me. Not even close. Heasked. And I said yes, then I orgasmed like a desperate, needy freak.
It was like something bypassed my brain entirely, like my body decided,this man knows what to do, let him handle it.
And he did.
I feel lighter now. Clearer. My skin tingles and my chest no longer aches. My whole body’s loose and warm like I had really good sex. Not that I’d actually know what that’s like. The one time I had sex, I didn’t have an orgasm. My baby’s dad left me wet and still wanting, disappearing when I asked if we should swap numbers so we could see each other again. He saw me again, once, when I was pregnant, but turned his back before I could say anything.
What must Wade think of me? A walking disaster. A clueless woman who almost made herself sick through ignorance of her own body. A woman who orgasmed witha man when all he was doing was trying to help her out with a problem.
It’s so embarrassing.
But Wade doesn’t seem to care about any of it, and I know I’m messed in the head because I want it again. That feeling, of climbing to the highest peak and tumbling into warm water while stars spin above me, is addictive. The blissed-out expression on his face, knowing he was feeding from me and enjoying it, is addictive. There’s no missing the still-present bulge in his jeans.
We step out onto the porch, and I blink against the sudden brightness. The air smells like turned dirt and hay.
Wade points across the property to chicken coops, a small stable, a vast stretch of pasture, and a fence line that runs out of sight.
“We breed cattle, break horses, board a few now and then for money. Lotta upkeep. Lotta hard work.” He looks at me again. “You willing to get your hands dirty?”
I nod. “I didn’t come out here to sit on my ass.”
That gets the first real smile out of him.
We circle around the back of the house, and that’s when I see the three men, spaced out along the paddock, mending a post line. All shirtless. All sweat-slick and muscled in ways that only come from real labor.
Wade raises his voice.
“Come meet the new help!”
They straighten, one by one, serious eyes curious and appraising.
The youngest is lanky, in his early twenties, with dark curls, wide eyes, full lips, and a jaw that could cut glass. If he were born anywhere else, he could have walked the runway, but in cowboy country, there’s only one line ofwork. The biggest is heavy built, chewing a toothpick and squinting into the sun. The third is Wade’s double, if a little leaner, with swirling tattoos up his strong right forearm, and laugh lines that hint at humor.
They walk over as Wade says, “Joelle, this here’s Eli, Rick, and you know Caleb. They keep this place running with me.”
