Shut up, I whisper back. They’re all using me.
Rhys’s breath tickles my ear, his voice teasing my eardrums. “Now, lift the maul—just like that, good—and when you bring it down, squat instead of bending. Like so.”
One hand strokes down my arm over my flannel, down to my hip, and he hunches lower, single-handedly guiding the maul down slowly while he aligns my body with his into proper form.
His thighs are beneath my hamstrings.
His crotch against my ass.
His chest to my back.
Still holding my hands in just one of his meaty paws, helping me through the motion two more times, a bulge against my ass telling me I’m not the only one affected, even if he’s not rubbing himself all over me. “Got it?”
“Mm-hmm,” I croak out.
“Whenever you’re ready then.”
He releases me and steps back, the heat of his body replaced with cool night air, and I falter as I swing the maul down, completely missing the log.
Well played, Rhys O’Malley.
Well. Fucking. Played.
And you know what?
I laugh out loud at how terribly bad my swing is.
Is it bad because this truly is harder than it looks though?
Or is it bad because his personal demonstration has every carnal nerve ending in my body sitting up and asking why he’s still sleeping on the couch?
Either way, this lesson is highly enjoyable.
I reach into my back pocket for my phone, but my gloves are too big, so I have to pull them off before I can get a grip on it. Then I hold it out to Rhys. “Take a video of me trying again? My sister will laugh for days.”
His brows briefly pinch together, but he pulls his own gloves off and takes my phone, our fingers brushing, and it’s only a lifetime of practice being poised that keeps me from visibly shivering—in the good way—at the contact.
“You honestly like your sister,” he says, aiming my phone at me while I line up on my own to swing at the log again after putting my gloves back on.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s the absolute best.” I swing the maul down, and this time, I hit the log.
Not in the middle though.
I hit it right at the edge, sending a small chunk flying one direction while the rest of the log teeters, then spins, then falls off the splitting block.
“Well done,” Rhys says.
His dry delivery cracks me up.
And me laughing earns another squinty stare.
“What?” I ask.
“Whoareyou?”
