We dig into the mud, sliding in the muck as we put together an enclosure fit for pot-bellied pig royalty.
I bend over, propping the hog panel onto the post we’ve already set. Hand outstretched, I wait for Tripp to pass me the screw gun. When nothing lands in my palm, I give a little shake to get his attention.
Still empty.
I glance back—and catch him openly checking me out.
“You gonna help or stare at my ass all day?”
He gives me a cocky grin. “I’m perfectly capable of doing both.”
I look pointedly at my waiting hand. “Are you? ‘Cause I’ve been waiting for that screw gun, and you still haven’t handed it to me.”
He continues to stare while reaching for the screw gun where it rests on the post next to him. I kick into the puddle by my feet, splattering a bit of mud on his jeans.
“Hey!” He jumps backward, a grin tugging on his lips. “What the hell?”
“Better pay attention or you might end up getting dirtier than you anticipated.”
“Aw, honey, you know I like getting dirty. I wouldn’t wanna leave you out, though.” He digs his hand into the mud and lobs it at my feet, splashing muddy water onto my jeans. “I know you like to get dirty too.”
I gasp, “Tripp!” Cold seeps through the denim, and I glare at his smug smile.
That smile only lasts as long as it takes me to scoop up some thick slop and retaliate, nailing him in the chest.
He cocks his head to the side. “Oh, it’s on.”
My eyes go wide as he reaches for me, and I take off, boots sliding through the muck.
He shadows me, and I dodge out of his reach. “Is this what you meant when you put ‘make it dirty’ on your list, Quinnie?”
A grin splits my face. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but I’m not opposed.” I toss another mud ball in his direction, but he ducks out of the way.
“Christ,” he mutters.
I sprint past the line of apple trees in full blossom. Mud flies at me, finding its mark on my lower back.
I spin around, ready to throw again, but he’s already closing in—mud-slick and grinning like the devil.
My breath catches. I try to dart away, but I’m too slow.
He lunges for me, and I squeal when his hand clamps around my waist. And then his foot slips and we both go down in the mud laughing, flushed and breathless.
Tripp’s body is pressed on top of mine, but he’s holding his weight off me, his forearms planted by my head.
Cold hits my skin as the mud seeps into the material of my shirt. Our laughter dies, and I’m held—suspended in this moment as our eyes lock.
His chest rises and falls, but he doesn’t say a word. Just stares as he gently lifts his hand, swiping a streak of mud with his thumb.
His lips find mine, and he kisses me. Slow and deliberate.
I can feel the hard press of him against my thigh, and my breath hitches in my throat. My body floods with arousal as muddy hands slide over the bare skin of my stomach, up my ribs, and push their way under my shirt.
"God, you're perfect, honey."
My chest tightens with something warm and traitorous, something I’ve been trying not to name.
"We can't," I gasp. He pulls back, his eyes wide and searching.
