Except... would that be so bad? My brain supplies images of Boone opening the door, seeing me touching myself, his expression shifting from shock to hunger. Of him crossing the room in three long strides, replacing my hand with his, showing me what it feels like to be touched by someone who knows what they're doing.
I squeeze my thighs together and whimper. This is torture. Three years of wanting him, and last night pushed everything to the surface. Now my body won't let me forget. Won't let me pretend I don't need him.
I need to get out of this bed. Need to splash cold water on my face. Need to find some semblance of control before I do something stupid like actually touch myself in his guest room.
I stumble to the bathroom and stare at my reflection. My hair's a mess. My face is flushed. I'm still wearing his flannel, which is rumpled and riding up, barely covering my ass. The sweatpants are twisted around my legs.
I look like I've been fucked.
I wish I had been fucked.
By him. Only him. Always him.
"Get it together," I tell my reflection. "You're being ridiculous."
My reflection doesn't argue, but she doesn't look convinced either.
I use the bathroom, wash my face, try to tame my hair. It doesn't really work, but at least I look slightly less like I spent the night having intensely sexual dreams about my host.
When I emerge, the house is quiet. Too quiet.
"Boone?" I call out softly.
No answer.
I pad down the hallway to the kitchen. Empty. The living room is also deserted: just that worn leather couch, the books, the morning sun streaming through the windows making everything look warm and inviting.
Where is he?
Maybe he went to the main house. Maybe he's avoiding me after last night's kitchen conversation. Maybe he realized how pathetic I am and is already plotting how to get rid of me politely.
Then I hear it. The sound of hoofbeats. Rhythmic and steady.
I move to the window and look out.
And there he is.
Boone's in the corral, riding a massive black horse. He's shirtless. Fucking shirtless wearing only jeans and boots, his body on full display as he guides the horse through what looks like training exercises.
Holy mother of God.
I've seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times. But never like this. Never backlit by morning sun, muscles flexing and rippling with every movement, sweat glistening on his skin like he's some kind of goddamn Greek god come to life.
His chest is broad and defined. His arms are thick with muscle, biceps bulging every time he adjusts the reins. His stomach is ridged with abs I didn't even know existed outside of magazines. And his back… Jesus Christ, his back is all powerful shoulders and carved muscle tapering down to a narrow waist.
He moves with the horse like they're one creature. Every shift of his hips, every flex of his thighs gripping the saddle, every roll of his shoulders... It's mesmerizing.
I watch him circle the corral, watch him lean forward to stroke the horse's neck, watch sweat drip down his spine. My fingers itch to follow that path. My mouth waters thinking about tasting the salt on his skin. My pussy clenches around nothing, desperate and empty.
This is wrong. I shouldn't be standing here watching him like a creep. Shouldn't be fantasizing about licking every inch of that body while he's just trying to work.
But I can't look away. Couldn't if my life depended on it.
He brings the horse to a stop and slides off. His jeans sit low on his hips, showing the V of muscles that disappears below his waistband. There's a dark trail of hair leading down from his navel, and I want to trace it with my tongue until I reach—
Stop. Fucking stop.
But I can't. Because now he's running a hand through his sweaty hair, making it stick up in every direction. Now he's reaching for a water bottle on the fence post and tipping his head back to drink, throat working, water dripping down his chin and onto his chest.
