Oh…good…granite.
Now…now IknowI’m dreaming. Because that right there is an ethereal being, unfit to walk the same land as I.
Face grim, Samson turns to face me, and water rushes around his hips. Clear water, I should clarify.Veryclear water rushes around his hips.
My wee innocent eyes cannot bear the sight.
The muscles. The tattoos. The scars. Thehim.
The perfect, handsome, marveloushim, just out of reach, yet somehow still entirely too much to behold.
My eyes roll back in my head.
And if I don’t wake up from this dream now, I’ll accept it.
This is real, and Samson will be the man I marry.
No matter what.
Chapter 5
♥
Big grumpy fantasy man of my reality…
It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream, even though it beats every fantasy I have ever dreamed up.
This is real life.
And I am inside Samson’s farmhouse, seated on a couch by a window that overlooks his cow pens and a field of what seems to be freshly-sown hay. The green stems wave in a distant breeze, too peaceful to live juxtaposed with the muddy, storm-weathered land.
Dazed, I sway like the field while Samson dabs a cotton ball against the cuts and scrapes covering my arms.
Whatever health elixir he’s drenched the swab in, it makes my wounds close up immediately. Which means it’s great I have a lot of them, because I am not emotionally prepared to part with this heart event.
Gruff and silent, Samson lifts my face. His tattooed forearm flexes. My breath catches.
He dabs my cheek with the stinging solution, and pain blooms along a two-inch gash that quite apparently cuts across my whole face. The sharp sensation as it sews itself shut drives home the reality.
Thisreality.
I am here.
He is here.
He wasbathing. I saw that. Mine eyes were graced this day with the most heavenly of sights.
The memory imprints itself in my brain, overriding rational thought, and I just can’t stop staring.
He’s…so…beautiful.
His shoulders so…well-endowed.
He’s clothed in a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of slacks now; that happened at some point between my fainting and my waking up to the sharp prick of this elixir in my wounds. The suspicious damp of my clothing suggests that he carried me inside like a valiant, naked, wet hero.
The mere idea of that has me breathless.
Stupor holds me in an iron vice as I take him in, drinking him down like crystal clear water.
