Instead, I’m rooted to the ground, watching him like I’ve never seen him before, which is ridiculous because I have. I’ve seen him up close, tasted his skin, fallen asleep wrapped around him.
But this…this is some kind of primitive fever dream. This view is doing things to my already ragged, emotionally wrecked state of mind.
He glances up, catching me staring, and that damn crooked smile of his appears.
“See something you like?” he drawls, leaning his weight against the post hole digger he’s been using.
I clear my throat. “I brought you water.”
“Thanks.” He strides over to me, and I can’t help but track the movement of each muscle. The tattoo on his bicep flexes as he reaches for the bottle, fingers brushing mine.
“You’re staring, Larkin,” he says, voice low.
“You’re shirtless,” I counter.
He takes a long drink, his throat working as he swallows, and I’m transfixed by the way a droplet escapes the corner of his mouth and slides down his jaw. He catches it with the back of his hand, smirking.
“Still mad about your dad?” he asks.
“Furious,” I admit. “But currently…distracted.”
His laugh is warm and deep, and it settles low in my stomach. He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“I like you distracted.” He leans down until his lips are just a breath away from mine. “Makes me feel like I’ve got a fighting chance.”
Then he kisses me softly, his lips tasting faintly of salt.
“You always have a chance,” I murmur against his mouth.
“You’re too good for me.”
“Stop that. I mean it, Rowan. No more of that talk.”
He exhales, eyes searching mine. “Old habits.”
“Then break them.” I trace my fingers along his collarbone, watching goosebumps rise in their wake despite the heat.
“Stubborn woman.”
“You like it.”
“I love it,” he says, sliding his hands to my waist, calloused fingers skimming under the hem of my shirt. The contrast between the rough texture of his palms and the gentleness of his touch sends electricity through me.
“You’re sweaty,” I say, but I don’t pull away. If anything, I lean closer.
“And you’re overdressed.” His eyes darken. “Seems unfair.”
“Life’s unfair, Wolfe.”
He huffs a laugh, fingers tightening at my waist. “You’re killing me.”
“And you’re supposed to be fixing a fence.”
“Fence can wait.” His mouth finds the curve of my neck, and I melt into him. “You can’t.”
“Rowan…”
“I’ve been thinking about tasting you for hours,” he rasps, lips brushing my ear.
