Page 33 of Stay Wild Darlin’

I blinked, then looked down to where he was staring. A thin scrape ran along my forearm, right below the elbow. Nothing serious, but enough to sting. Still, all I could register was the way his fingers wrapped around mine. His touch was hot. Like fever hot.

“Oh. Look at that,” I said, voice a little too breathy.

“Come on, darlin’,” he murmured, already steering me inside with a hand on the small of my back. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“It’s late,” I argued weakly. “I can do it⁠—”

He chuckled, completely ignoring me, and kept his hand right where it was, guiding me gently into the room.

Yep. Fever. Full-body fever.

“I should probably go to the hospital,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

He chuckled again and sat me down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re fine,” he said, before disappearing into the bathroom and coming back out. “I’ve got you.”

He knelt in front of me, rummaging in a little first-aid kit he must’ve grabbed, completely unfazed while I sat there very much fazed by the fact that a rugged, broad-shouldered cowboy was on his knees between my legs.

My brain short-circuited. My mouth, unfortunately, did not.

“Well,” I muttered, eyeing him, “this isn’t exactly how I pictured you on your knees in front of me . . . but I’m not complaining.”

Dalton froze for half a second, then looked up, those annoyingly thick lashes framing his eyes. “That so?”

Heat exploded across my face. “I mean— shit. I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Oh no.” He smirked, unwrapping a wipe with way too much calm. “Don’t backpedal now. You already said it.”

I groaned and covered my face with my free hand. “I’m bleeding, probably concussed, and you’re unfairly attractive. Cut me some slack.”

He chuckled, gently taking my arm and wiping away the blood. “You’re lucky I don’t charge extra for flirting.”

“Is that a service you offer all your employees?” I peeked at him through my fingers.

He glanced up, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Only the ones who fall in my yard.”

“Dalton,” I breathed.

He looked up, hand still on my arm, eyes locked on mine.

His touch hadn’t moved from my arm, but my skin was buzzing—begging.

Please touch me.

God, I wanted to say it out loud. One more beer and I might have. Hell, I almost did anyway. He finished pressing the bandage onto my arm, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers drifted, slow and purposeful, trailing down the length of my forearm . . . over the curve of my wrist . . . slipping past the hem of my dress.

His palm landed on my thigh.

Bare skin.

His grip tightened, fingers sinking into my flesh like he was fighting every instinct to go farther, and fuck, I felt it—deep in my core. My thighs tensed involuntarily, the heat between them going molten, soaked with the need he stirred with a goddamn touch. He teasingly dragged his thumb along the inside.

“Fuck,” he growled—raw, guttural, like the sound had been torn out of him.

He clenched my leg tighter, enough to make me gasp, to make me throb.

I was burning. Drenched. Teetering on the edge of something wild. My nipples were hard, aching, brushing against the inside of my bra with every rise and fall of my lungs.