He laughs. "Of course you know that show."
"Doesn't everyone?"
"Aye," he makes a show of using the Scottish yes. "But I watched it with Granny Franny when she'd let me stay up late on our visits."
"Ah, well I'd watch with my parents."
"Up there in the castle?"
"Yes, up in the castle." I roll my eyes.
"Do your fans know where you grew up? Like, it just seems so removed from the country music culture."
"There's a reason my first album was called Country Set." I shrug as wereach the driveway.
"Ha!" He barks out a laugh. "I never put that together. Too many hits in the head."
"Hits in the head?"
"So you didn't google me." He performs disappointment well.
"I haven't had the chance."
His eyes flare and my pulse quickens.
"I play hockey." He says as we head up the driveway to the house.
"Ah."
"For the D.C. Renegades."
"And that's a big deal?" I'm teasing him, I know enough to know they're a professional team.
"Aye." He rolls his eyes. "C'mon up and have a wash."
We head to the side of the cottage where a kitchen garden is wildly overgrown. Duncan slides off his glasses and sets them on the window sill. My feet freeze midstep as he reaches up behind his neck and drags his mud-caked, long-sleeve, navy henley over his head. It falls to the ground in a heap and I am treated to a view of his athletic body. The broad, rounded shoulders I admired in my jacket last night sit atop a thick, hairy, muscular chest. The brown curls thin as my gaze travels down his tapered torso. They pick up again under his navel and form a trail leading into the waistband of his trousers.
I snap my gaze to his face again as my thumb flies up to the side of my mouth before any of the drool pooling in my mouth leaks out.
I have no idea if Duncan has caught me staring because he’s turning away from me as slides his fingers into the waistband of his joggers. My eyes devour the slow, sensual way he guides the fabric down his thick legs. He steps out of the wellies, tosses his bottoms away, and he's left standing barefoot in the sparse grass in just a pair of red boxer briefs.
Before I can regulate my body temperature back to normal, it skyrockets again.
"Not bad." He says as I recklessly map every inch of his broad, muscular back. "I thought I'd be way messier after that tumble."
My brain scrambles but I can't form words to respond.
Carrying on, he bends to reach for the hose and turns on the tap. I think. I’m too focused on his round, firm, bubble of a butt and thick hair-dusted thighs.
And the last remaining brain function I possess evaporates when he tips the hose above his head and starts to wash off the debris from his time behind the car.
It's like watching soft porn in slow motion. I track the way his hand drags through his quickly wetting hair. He grips the back of his neck and I assume trails his hand down his chest because it disappears from view.
A feather could knock me off a cliff as he turns to face me. His large, veiny handisworking its way down the clipped landscape of his chest as he washes the residue off his body. My eyes track the trails of water as it bounces off the ridges of his abs. And lower, to where it dampens the front of his boxers.
The outline of his cock is highlighted like a fucking neon sign.
Even under the cold stream of hose water it’s impressive.
