Page 102 of The Goat Next Door

“Careful, Emmy,” I rumble. “You keep dropping things, and I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to set a trap.”

“And what makes you think you wouldn’t walk right into it?”

By two, we’ve finished the list and even fixed other things. I’m packing my gear, trying to purge the lingering electricity from my skin.

Ember is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded tightly, watching me with a look that is equal parts frustration and fascination.

“You’re really leaving?”

I snap the buckle on my tool belt with a final, metallic click.

I walk toward her, crowding her space until she has to press her back against the granite counter. I lean in, placing my hands on the counter on either side of her hips, boxing her in, keeping her trapped.

“The table is steady,” I murmur. “The floorboards aren’t going anywhere. Everything is exactly where it needs to be.”

I see her swallow, her eyes darting to my lips. She tries to find a comeback, her mouth opening, but all that comes out is a soft, jagged breath.

“What’s the matter, Ember?” I tease, letting a slow smirk spread across my face. “Did you run out of witty, bratty remarks?”

She flushes, a deep, crimson wave creeping up from her chest. She stammers, “I—I just meant—I thought you’d want to stay for coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee, Emmy. I want to know if you realize just how far over the edge you’ve pushed yourself,” I respond, leaning even closer.

I reach out, my finger tracing the line of her jaw, dragging it down to her throat, right where her pulse is hammering like a trapped bird. She gasps, her hands gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turn white.

I slide my hand down, tracing the valley between her breasts, my knuckle grazing the edge of that yellow fabric. She lets out a hitching sound. I linger there, letting the tension coil tight enough to snap.

“You’re shaking,” I mock. “Tell me, Emmy. Does your body ache because of the humidity, or because you’re waiting for me to finally quit talking and just bend you over this counter and show you exactly what you’ve been begging for?”

Her eyes are wide, glassy, and utterly focused on me.

“I want you to,” she manages to gasp.

I slide my palm lower, tracing the line where her overalls meet the swell of her hip, pressing in just hard enough to make her gasp.

“You’ve been preening all morning, teasing with your gear, waiting for me to dive in. Do you really think I’m going to give you the satisfaction of finishing this on your terms?”

I watch her eyes flutter, her body swaying forward into my touch.

“You want it, don’t you?” I murmur. “You want me to drag these straps down and show you exactly what I want to do to a mouthy little city girl like you. You want to feel every single inch of me. You want me to fill you up until you’re crying, until you can’t think about anything but the way my body feels inside yours.”

“Yes,” she breathes.

I smile, pulling my hand away just as she leans in, leaving her clutching at empty air. I watch the frustration spark in her eyes—the raw, needy ache I’ve been building in her all morning.

“Patience, Emmy,” I smile. “Try not to ruin the finish on this table while you’re busy daydreaming about me.”

I push off the counter, turning my back on her before she can recover, before she can find that sharp, biting tongue of hers again.

I walk to the door, feeling her eyes burning holes into the back of my head.

I reach my own house, the silence of my place feeling like a sanctuary after the chaos of hers. I sit in my chair, leaning back and closing my eyes, a slow, dark smile creeping across my face.

I’ve never enjoyed a job more.

27

Ember