Page 11 of Horned to be Wild (Harmony Glen #7)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

L ila’s words echoed in Torin’s mind all night.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she looked at him when she talked about his carvings, as if he could do anything.

As if he were someone special, not just the lumberjack everyone had always assumed he was.

As much as he’d resisted the idea at first, the more he thought about the library project, the more he wanted it.

He’d always had a soft spot for children, and the idea of giving them something magical delighted him.

It also helped to distract him from the memory of her touch.

He’d nearly come just from the feel of her soft little hand on his aching cock.

His control had been hanging by a thread and when her hand brushed over him, it had almost snapped.

He’d wanted to lift her up, carry her to his bed, and bury himself in her.

And the worst part was, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t have stopped him.

He could have lost himself in her, but she was so small in comparison.

How could he possibly take her the way he wanted to without hurting her?

He groaned, his seemingly ever-present erection throbbing as he remembered the feel of her body against his.

Even thinking about her was enough to make his cock pulse.

An ice cold shower didn’t help and neither did his own hand.

He sighed and tucked his aching cock into his jeans, then hurried out to feed Mabel and tidy up his workshop.

The thought of her in his workshop again, her sweet scent filling the air, made him both eager and nervous, his tail flicking anxiously.

He knew she would never mock him, but the thought of her watching him work left him feeling vulnerable.

He did his best to push it aside as he caught the sound of footsteps on the path. She was early.

He opened the door to watch her approach. She was wearing a short painted-splattered coverall that clung to her curves and left her creamy legs temptingly bare, and her wild mane of hair was caught up in a provocative ponytail. She looked both ridiculously adorable and unbelievably sexy.

Mabel trotted over to greet her and she bent down to pet the goat, her face soft and warm. Her expression softened even further when she looked up and saw him watching her.

“Morning, grumpy,” she called cheerfully. “I brought breakfast. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“Hmph,” he grunted automatically, and felt himself melt when she beamed at him.

“Ready to get started?”

As soon as they entered the workshop, her whole attitude changed. She became serious and focused, studying the wood he’d pulled out, before nodding approvingly.

“I think that will work.”

She spread her sketches across the workbench he’d cleared for her, the rough sketches of the previous day now carefully detailed.

“Did you spend all night working on these?” he asked. She shrugged, then gave him a teasing smile.

“I needed something to distract me.”

“Distract you? Why?”

She stepped closer and his nostrils flared at the familiar scent of her arousal. His cock hardened, but his heart beat faster with a confusing mix of hope and fear.

“Because you have me so worked up, I can’t think straight. It’s a shame you can’t help me with that.”

She turned back to her sketches without waiting for a response, leaving him frozen in place.

Could he do that? Just give her pleasure?

He wouldn’t have to worry about his size or his strength if all he was doing was satisfying her.

As long as I can restrain myself. He tucked the thought aside to consider later, and focused on their project.

He listened as she explained the concept for each mural, asking occasional questions, his mind already translating her ideas into wood and form.

By midday, they were working in a comfortable silence, broken only by the scratch of her pencil on paper and the rhythmic sounds of his tools shaping wood.

Occasionally she would rise from her stool and stretch, coming to watch over his shoulder as he carved.

Her closeness was both distracting and deeply satisfying.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the rough outline he was working on for the Narnia doorway—an intricate lamp post wreathed in pine branches.

“The grain’s tricky here,” he explained, his voice low. “Needs a careful touch.”

He felt her lean closer, the warmth of her body radiating against his back. “Show me?”

Without thinking, he shifted, making room for her beside him. His hand engulfed hers as he guided her fingers over the half-formed carving. “Feel that? That’s where the wood wants to split.”

Her fingers were warm beneath his, delicate yet strong. Artist’s hands. She nodded, her ponytail brushing his arm. “You’re working with it, not against it.”

“Always,” he agreed, suddenly aware of how close she was, how perfectly she fit against his side. He couldn’t quite prevent a sigh of regret when she moved away again.

The next few days tell into a satisfying rhythm.

She arrived every morning with coffee and breakfast, and they’d discuss any ideas they’d come up with overnight.

Then she’d focus on the canvases she’d prepared while he worked on the doorframes.

He’d never realized how enjoyable it could be to have someone else around—someone to exchange ideas with, someone who understood when he pointed out a new detail he’d added.

The fact that she sought out his advice as well thrilled him. It felt like… a partnership.

They’d work together most of the day, then share a simple dinner. Sometimes he cooked, sometimes she did, moving around his kitchen as though she belonged there. Each evening it was harder to let her leave.

Her comment about her pleasure haunted him and he slowly started testing his control, cupping the heavy weight of her breast as he kissed her goodnight, or pulling her onto his lap as they studied a detail in one of her sketches.

She always came to him willingly and even though he knew she wanted more, she let him set the pace.

Then on the fifth day, as a gentle rain pattered against the workshop roof, Mabel made her move.

He’d been so focused on the intricate leaf pattern he was carving that he hadn’t noticed the goat slip in through the partially open door. His first warning was Lila’s sudden gasp.

He looked up just in time to see Mabel, with a gleam of pure mischief in her eyes, rear up and head-butt the shelving unit where he stored cans of paint.

“Mabel, no?—!”

His warning came too late. The shelf rocked, and in horrifying slow motion, five cans of brightly colored paint tipped over, cascading their contents across the floor, splattering in all directions.

Primary colors exploded across the workshop—a vibrant blue streak across Lila’s cheek, a splash of yellow down his arm, red pooling on the floor between them.

For a frozen moment, they both stared at the chaos, at each other, and at the unrepentant goat who seemed enormously pleased with her handiwork.

Then she laughed—bright, uninhibited, joyous laughter that seemed to fill every corner of his workshop.

He stared at her as she wiped at the blue streak on her face, only managing to smear it further across her skin.

“Your face,” she gasped between bursts of laughter. “You look like you’re going to faint!”

He blinked, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders. The paints were water-based, easily cleaned up. The wood he’d been carving was safely out of the splash zone. And Lila… Lila was laughing, her eyes bright with mirth, looking at him not with annoyance but with shared amusement.

A chuckle, rusty and unfamiliar, rumbled up from his chest.

“Mabel,” he said, trying to sound stern even as another chuckle escaped him, “you are a menace.”

The goat bleated cheerfully and pranced out the door, mission accomplished.

Lila’s laughter subsided into giggles as she surveyed the colorful disaster. “Well, at least it’s a creative mess. Very Jackson Pollock.”

He snorted, moving to grab some rags. “Not exactly what I had in mind for our project.”

“I don’t know,” she said, bending to swipe a finger through a puddle of blue paint. Before he realized her intention, she straightened and dabbed the paint squarely on the tip of his nose. “I think it suits you.”

He froze, staring down at her impish smile, at the playful challenge in her eyes. Something long dormant stirred within him—a playfulness he’d buried so deeply he’d forgotten it existed.

Slowly, deliberately, he dipped his own finger into a splash of red paint. “That so?”

Her eyes widened, a delighted grin spreading across her face as she backed away. “Don’t you dare!”

“Seems only fair,” he growled playfully, advancing on her with the paint-laden finger. “An eye for an eye. A smudge for a smudge.”

She shrieked with laughter, darting around the workbench. “That’s not how that saying goes!”

“Close enough.”

He lunged, but even though he was fast for his size, she was quicker. She grabbed a nearby brush, dipped it in yellow, and flicked it at him, splattering his chest with tiny golden droplets.

“Now you’ve done it,” he said, feigning a glare, and pounced.

What followed was chaos—joyful, colorful chaos. They chased each other around the workshop, armed with brushes and fingers dipped in paint, leaving trails of color and laughter in their wake.

Finally, he cornered her against the far wall, both of them breathless and splattered with every color imaginable. His chest heaved as he planted his hands on either side of her, trapping her between his arms.

“Nowhere to run now,” he growled.

She looked up at him, her brown eyes dancing, her cheeks flushed with exertion and laughter. Streaks of blue and yellow painted her face, her neck, her arms. She’d never looked more beautiful.

“I surrender,” she whispered, but her smile was anything but defeated.

The playfulness between them shifted, deepening into something more. Desire crackled in the air, electric and intense.

“Kiss me,” she said softly. “Kiss me, Torin.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then dove.

His mouth claimed hers with a hunger he could no longer restrain.

She melted into him, her body yielding against his as his tongue swept into her mouth, claiming every inch of her sweetness.

His tail flicked around her ankle, holding her close, while his hands roamed her body, reveling in the softness of her curves, and leaving trails of color behind.

When he broke away from her mouth, she was panting, her lips pink and swollen.

“You have paint here,” he said as his hand came up to cover her breast. Her nipple hardened beneath his touch and he groaned as she arched into his touch. He gently squeezed her breast, his thumb rubbing across the stiff peak as he left more paint behind.

“Mmm. And here.”

She unbuttoned the top of her coveralls and pulled the fabric aside.

His mouth went dry at the sight of those lush paint-speckled mounds, barely confined by a lacy bra.

His inner voice urged him to pull back before it was too late, but then she guided his hand back to her breast, her eyes dark with need.

He stroked his thumb over the taut peak of her nipple, and her head fell back.

“Please, Torin. Touch me. I want to feel your hands on my skin. I want to feel your mouth on me.”

He wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but what if he lost control and frightened her, hurt her? What if this ruined everything?

She must have seen his hesitation, because she reached up and cupped his face, her eyes soft and full of understanding.

“You won’t hurt me. You could never hurt me.”

“I just want to bring you pleasure.”

He wasn’t sure if he was telling her or reminding himself, but she smiled up at him.

“I’m okay with that.”

He groaned and gave in, unfastening the rest of the buttons and letting her coverall slide to the floor, leaving her in just her lacy bra and panties. The sight threatened to take his breath away.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“And covered in paint,” she pointed out breathlessly.

“Yes. Here.” He ran his thumbs over her nipples again, leaving streaks of green on her pretty bra, and she gasped.

“And here,” he growled, sliding his hand down to cup her mound through the lacy panties, the heat of her arousal pressing against his palm.

“Oh, god,” she whimpered.

“Torin,” he corrected her as his fingers teased her, stroking the damp fabric as she arched into his touch.

“Yes,” she cried out as he slipped his hand beneath the lace to stroke her bare skin.

He found her hot and slick and wet, her folds swollen with desire.

His finger circled her clit and she gasped, her hips rolling.

He repeated the motion, teasing her clit, then sliding lower to press gently into her.

Fuck, she was tight. Her inner walls gripped his finger and his cock throbbed at the thought of how it would feel around his straining erection.

He carefully added another finger, stretching her, and her breath came in ragged gasps as he continued to tease and torment her.

His thumb circled her clit again, and he felt her body quivering on the edge of climax.

“Come for me,” he ordered, and she shattered.

Her head fell back against the wall, her sweet little cunt convulsing around his fingers as she cried out his name. A deep satisfaction filled him, and he continued to stroke her slowly, drawing out her climax.

As her body relaxed, she slumped against him. He picked her up and carried her over to the chair he kept in the corner, sitting down with her in his lap, and she nestled happily against him. He’d done it. He’d pleasured her without losing control, without hurting her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft and content.

“My pleasure,” he said, and meant it.

She gave a breathy laugh. “I should hope so.”

He grunted, not wanting to admit how much her climax had affected him. But she shifted, her hip pressing against his erection. Her head tilted back and she looked up at him.

“What about you?”

“This is enough,” he said firmly.

She didn’t look as if she believed him—he wasn’t sure he believed himself—but if this meant he could keep her happy and keep her safe, it was enough. It had to be enough.

She looked around at the paint-splattered workshop and began to laugh again. “We’ve made quite a mess.”

He followed her gaze, taking in the chaos they’d created. But instead of the irritation he would have expected to feel at such disorder, he felt only a deep contentment.

“Worth it,” he said simply, pulling her close again.

“We should probably clean up,” she murmured against his chest, making no move to pull away.

“Probably,” he agreed, equally reluctant to let her go.

Outside, Mabel bleated happily from the shelter of her pen, clearly pleased with her matchmaking success. He made a mental note to give her an extra treat later, but for now his arms were full and his heart was content. That was all that mattered.