Mr. Redding meets me at the gate with a warm smile and a hug.
“Ina! Good to see you again.”
“You too, Mr. Redding.”
“You remember Beau.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
He steps out of a nearby barn. Gray shirt today…just as tight across that impossible chest, pulled taut over his shoulders, the short sleeves straining around his biceps. The same baseball cap pulled low, shadowing his golden eyes, that jaw. His full mouth. The same quiet, consuming stare that makes my insides dissolve and my pussy clench.
“Ina,” he says. Low. Gravelly. My name rolling out of his mouth like he’s been holding it on his tongue all morning.
My skin prickles. The stubble burn on my neck throbs. And my traitorous body floods with the memory of his scent, his heat, his rough hands…all of it slamming back into me like I’m standing on that porch again with his fingers inside me and his mouth on my breast.
I meet his eyes. Gold on brown. And I know we both remember exactly what happened twelve hours ago. It’s right there. In the heat between us, the way his gaze drops to my mouth for just a second…lingering on my lips like he’s remembering how they tasted…before coming back up.
“Beau,” I nod.
And my voice doesn’t even crack. Look at me. Professional as hell.
Four
Ina
Mr. Redding starts talking bulls. I latch onto the conversation like it’s a life raft. We walk through the main bullpen together, eyeing a few studs, talking bloodlines and breeding charts. I even manage to sound normal. Professional. Like a woman whose only interest in breeding is bovine.
Beau walks next to us. Quiet. His long stride keeping easy pace with mine. I catch him in my peripheral: the way his forearms flex when he gestures toward a pen, the way his big hand rests on the top rail of a fence, his thick fingers curling over the metal. The way his shirt pulls across the plane of his back every time he turns. I’m supposed to be looking at bulls. I’m looking at him.
Then a ranch hand jogs over to Mr. Redding, drawing his attention. “You two keep going,” he says, waving us forward. “Beau knows this stuff better than I do. I need to take care of this.”
And just like that, I’m alone with Beau Redding. Again.
We walk in silence. The sun is hot, the air thick with dust and heat. I keep my eyes forward. My arms crossed. My jaw set. Professional. Composed. Absolutely not thinking about his fingers inside me.
But I can feel him right next to me. His huge body throwing off heat that has nothing to do with the sun. Every few steps, his arm brushes mine, his bare skin against my bare skin, and the contact sparks through me like a lit match. He smells like leather and sweat and cedar, and every breath I take pulls him deeper into my lungs.
He leads me to a smaller pen. Secluded. Quiet. Just one bull and a cow in close quarters.
“Natural breeding,” he rasps. “No artificial insemination. Just instinct.”
I lean against the fence, gripping the top rail with both hands. Trying to act like I’m not vibrating out of my skin. The metal is sun-warm under my palms. The bull is pacing. Sniffing. Circling the cow with a slow, deliberate focus that reminds me of someone I’m trying very hard not to look at right now.
Beau steps behind me. Close. Not touching, but close enough that his chest almost grazes my back. I feel the heat of his body like a wall. His scent wraps around me, stronger now, mixed with sweat and dust. His breath moves my hair.
“You see what he’s doing?” he murmurs. His lips are close enough to my ear that I feel the vibration of his voice in my jaw, my throat, and down my spine. “He’s testing her. Reading her. Waiting for the right moment.”
I grip the fence rail tighter. My knuckles going white. My pulse pounding between my legs.
“She’s in heat,” Beau continues. Low. Unhurried. Like we’re still talking about cattle. Like he’s not doing exactly what the bull is doing. “He can smell it on her. Knows she’s ready before she does.”
I swallow hard. “Beau…”
“He’s patient because he doesn’t need to rush.” His body shifts. His chest presses against my back now. Solid. Warm. Massive. I can feel the hard ridge of his pecs, the flat plane of his stomach, the heat of his skin through thin layers of cotton. “He knows she’s his.”
My breathing goes shallow. My thighs press together. Every word out of his mouth is landing somewhere below my navel and detonating.
“That sweet little pussy of yours?” he breathes, so low I almost don’t hear it. Almost. His lips brush the shell of my ear, and my entire body breaks out in goosebumps. “She gave herself to me last night.”
