“Says the woman who was about to nail rotted wood to a fence post.” His thumbs stroke across my skin.
“It would have worked.”
“It would have fallen apart in a week.” He’s leaning closer.
“A week is better than nothing.”
“A proper repair is better than a week.” His hands tighten.
We’re arguing in whispers, standing so close I can see the stubble along his jaw. The level is still in my hands, pressed between us, but nobody’s focused on the fence anymore.
“You know what your problem is?” I ask.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re a perfectionist. Everything has to be done exactly right, according to your standards, or it’s not worth doing at all,” I say.
“And you know what your problem is?”
“Please. Share your wisdom, Mr. Wyatt McCoy.”
“You’re stubborn. You’d rather do something wrong than ask for help.”
“I didn’t ask for help because I didn’t need help,” I hiss.
“You obviously need help.” His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back.
“I needed to fix a fence rail, not get a lecture on my shortcomings.”
His hands are still on me, one in my hair, one on my ribs, and I’m suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing, and how thin the fabric is between his hands and my skin. Beneath our argument there’s something else, something that has nothing to do with fence repair and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.
“You’re impossible,” I tell him, but my hands have come to rest on his chest.
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re controlling.”
“You’re dangerous,” he growls.
“Dangerous?” The word comes out breathier than I intended. “How am I dangerous?”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying my face in the moonlight. His hand in my hair tightens, and I feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against my stomach.
“Because,” he says finally, his voice rough, “you make me want to do things I shouldn’t.”
“Like what?” My fingers curl into his shirt.
Instead of kissing me like I expect, he spins me around, pressing me against the fence post. His body cages me, and he leans down, his mouth on my ear.
“Like touching you,” he whispers, his hand sliding from my hip to my stomach, fingers splaying possessively. “Like finding out if you taste as good as you smell.” His lips brush my neck. “Like discovering every sound you make when you come.”
My knees go weak, and if it wasn’t for the fence post and his body holding me up, I’d collapse.
“Whoa,” I breathe.
He pulls back suddenly, stepping away like I’ve burned him. “We should fix this fence before your dad wakes up.”
Right. The fence. The reason we’re out here in the first place. Not so I can have dirty fantasies about Wyatt McCoy’s body.
