Page 6 of Horned to be Wild (Harmony Glen #7)
CHAPTER SIX
I ’m a fool , Torin thought as he snapped Mabel’s lead rope to her collar.
He should have let Lila go home on her own, but the afternoon had been so pleasant that he hadn’t wanted to bring it to an end, hadn’t wanted to lose her sweet scent, or the occasional brush of her body against his, or that bright, happy smile.
The approaching evening was a flimsy excuse at best—the sun was still well above the horizon, and she had proven herself perfectly capable of walking down the long track to his house—but she hadn’t questioned it. Perhaps she didn’t want the afternoon to end either.
“This way,” he directed when she started towards the track. “There’s a path through the woods which is much shorter.”
“How convenient,” she murmured, giving him a teasing look, and he almost tripped over his hooves.
He took refuge in his usual silence, leading her along the narrow trail next to a small stream that tumbled through the woods on its way to the lake. The water splashed and danced over rocks and fallen logs, the shadows growing longer as they walked.
They walked side by side, Mabel trotting ahead with her lead rope casually looped over his arm. He was suddenly aware of how much he towered over her, and he deliberately slowed his pace to match her shorter strides. She gave him a grateful smile, and they walked in silence for a few more minutes.
“That’s a bluebird,” he said, directing her attention to a flash of blue among the branches. “They mate for life.”
Where had that come from? He wasn’t normally given to spouting random animal facts. He sounded like a damn nature documentary narrator.
He watched her tilting her face up to look at the bird, the last rays of sunlight breaking through the canopy to paint patterns across her skin.
The urge to touch her nearly overwhelmed him—he wanted to run his fingers along the curve of her jaw, to feel the softness of her cheek against his calloused palm.
Instead he kept his hands clenched firmly at his sides.
As they continued walking, he found himself sharing his knowledge about the forest—about the old oak that marked the halfway point between their properties, about the family of foxes that denned near the creek each spring.
The closer they got to her property line, the more he dragged his feet, pointing out increasingly insignificant landmarks.
“These mushrooms only grow on the north side of fallen logs,” he explained, crouching to indicate a cluster of tiny brown fungi.
She knelt beside him, her shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to look, and the contact sent another surge of warmth through him. She was so close he could see individual freckles scattered across her nose, could count her eyelashes if he wanted to.
“The woods seem so much friendlier when you explain them,” she said softly.
Her words pleased him more than they should have. He’d always thought of the forest as his refuge, his domain. The idea that he could make it welcoming for her, that he could be her guide here, stirred something protective deep in his chest.
They were nearing the edge of her garden now, the trees thinning to reveal glimpses of her cottage beyond. Their time together was running out. He felt the pressure of unspoken words building in his throat, though he had no idea what he wanted to say.
Ahead of them, Mabel suddenly stopped walking. The goat stood absolutely still, her head cocked to one side as though listening to something only she could hear. Then, with no warning, she bolted.
The lead rope, loosely draped over his arm, snapped taut. Mabel darted between them, circling rapidly, the rope wrapping around their legs in a chaotic tangle.
“Mabel!” he barked, but it was too late.
The rope pulled tight, yanking their legs together. Lila yelped in surprise, pitching forward. He tried to catch her, but his own balance was compromised. They tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful heap, and she landed directly on top of him.
His back hit the forest floor with a thud, Lila sprawled across his chest, their bodies pressed together from chest to thighs.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The full, soft weight of her body against his was an exquisite torture.
Every curve of her body aligned perfectly with his, as though she’d been designed specifically to fit against him.
He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing and see the surprise in her wide brown eyes.
“We seem to keep ending up like this,” she said breathlessly, but he couldn’t find the words to respond.
Her hair had fallen forward, brushing against his cheek in a silken curtain.
One of his hands had instinctively gone to her waist to steady her, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.
His body had responded instantly to her nearness, his shaft thickening.
He prayed she couldn’t feel it, even as his treacherous body hardened beneath her.
Time seemed to stretch indefinitely. They were frozen together, neither advancing nor retreating, caught in the magnetic field between them. Her lips parted slightly, her pupils dilating as she looked down at him.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All his carefully constructed walls, his years of self-imposed isolation, seemed to evaporate in the warmth of her gaze.
There was nothing in the world but this woman, this moment, this overwhelming need to pull her closer, to claim her mouth with his, to roll her beneath him and?—
Mabel bleated, sounding suspiciously satisfied with herself, and the spell broke.
Reality came crashing back. He became acutely aware of his position—sprawled in the dirt, tangled in a goat lead, his body betraying his most basic desires.
Shame and desire warred within him as Lila continued to stare down at him, her expression unreadable.
She was still pressed against him, making no move to pull away. Her weight was nothing to him, but it pinned him more effectively than any restraint. He was completely at her mercy, trapped not by the rope around their legs but by his own desperate longing.
“I—” he started, his voice a rough, strained sound that he barely recognized.
He had no idea what he was going to say. Apologize? Ask her to move? Beg her to stay exactly where she was?
Her eyes searched his face, lingering on his lips. The air between them crackled with tension. One of her hands moved slightly against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Torin,” she whispered, and his name on her lips sounded not like a question, but like an invitation.