“You’re doing an amazing job. Hollow Creek is incredible…” I gesture at the fields, the barn, the operation that stretches as far as the eye can see. “The way you manage all of this, being a wonderful father on top of it… Rhys is lucky to have you.”
Ryder doesn’t respond immediately. He stares at me, those violet eyes smoldering, and goes for a silent nod.
I laugh, exasperated. “You’re not great at taking either constructive criticism or compliments.”
He smirks now, a confident, lopsided grin that has my stomach clenching so hard I’m getting a free abs workout. “Good thing I’m great at dancing, then.”
The phantoms of his hands are back on me, holding my hips, tugging me closer, even if we’re walking three feet apart.
Ryder’s gaze drops to my flaming cheeks, and he seems deeply satisfied by the color blooming there.
We walk a few more steps in silence, then Ryder crouches next to one of the last rows of tulips that have not been harvested, their petals deep velvety purples and reds.
“Have you done this before?” He looks up at me, squinting against the sun.
Picked flowers from a field?
“No,” I say aloud.
I haven’t even been to a flower shop in forever. My last flower order was when I was still living in California, and I selected the bouquet by clicking on a website.
“Crash course.” He grins. “You pull the whole stem out of the earth. They last longer that way.”
I crouch beside him, our knees almost touching.
“See?” He grasps a stem low, just above the soil. “Get as much of it as possible. Grab it below the lowest leaf.”
He has dirt under the nails, calluses on his palms, and I’d still want those hands on me. Clean doesn’t matter. The part of me that cared about mud is long gone; I’d let him take me here in it. I’m so feral with want, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be me taking him.
I watch as he demonstrates, his fingers wrapping around the green stem.
“Then you pull straight up.” He tugs, and the tulip comes free, bulb and all. “Gentle but firm.”
Is that how he has sex? Firm but gentle, or hard and fast, or slow and dirty? Oh my gosh, brain, please shut up. Even if I’m not sure I’m thinking with my brain right now.
“The key,” Ryder continues, brushing soil from the roots, “is confidence. If you’re tentative, the stem breaks. You have to commit.”
He’s teaching me basic botany, but he might as well be coaching me through an orgasm, telling me when to breathe, how to move, when to come—screaming whose name.
My skin prickles with heat.
Ryder looks at me. “Are you hot?”
And bothered, yes!
I choke out. “What?”
“Your face is red.” His expression is innocent, but the twinkle in his eyes is wicked. “You okay?”
“It’s the sun. Fair skin is a terrible nuisance.”
His mouth curls up in a smile, but he doesn’t call me out.
“You want to try?”
I select a red tulip, wrapping my hand around the stem the way he showed me. The texture is smooth, cool, and slightly waxy.
“Lower,” Ryder coaxes. “Get more of the stem.”
