Page 57 of Tempting Wyatt

He lowers his hands, skimming them down my body until his fingers dig into my hips. A shiver skates down my spine. I let my hands slide up, over the front of his worn T-shirt, exploring the hard ridges of muscle beneath it.

His forehead rests on mine as we both struggle for breath. “I shouldn’t have done that. We shouldn’t?—”

“Let go for one night, Wyatt,” I whisper, my fingers curling into the fabric covering his chest. “Let yourself have this. Then we’ll go eat dinner with your family.”

His exhale is rough, like I just asked him to do the impossible. I don’t know if this man ever lets go and allows himself to enjoy the moment.

“Ivy.” My name is a warning, but I hear the cracks in his resolve.

“We can stop now if you want,” I say, softer this time, my lips just inches from his. “But you’re coming to dinner. Even if I have to drag you.” I nudge my nose against his.

His breath stutters as if he might laugh. Then he smiles. It’s a breathtaking sight. “I’d love to see you try, Hollywood.”

“I’m not very good at taking no for an answer, Wyatt Logan. I might surprise you.”

His dark eyes bore into mine, as if he can see into my soul. “You already have.”

His mouth crashes down on mine once more, hotter and even more demanding. I barely have time to gasp before myhead is spinning with intoxicating awareness of everywhere he touches me, his hands greedy and unapologetic as they slide down my back to cover my ass. He yanks me to the edge of the table, and I continue to dry-hump the thick ridge between his hips with reckless abandon.

The rough stubble on his jaw scrapes against my skin as his lips move to my neck, trailing heat and hunger with every press of his mouth.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he growls against my throat.

“You like it. Admit it,” I breathe, tilting my head to give him better access.

He groans, low and deep, his teeth grazing my collarbone. His fingers slip under the hem of my shirt, leaving a trail of fire along my skin. I press closer, craving more, needing more.

“We really, really need to get to dinner,” I remind him before sucking his lower lip into my mouth. I bite down gently. “Your sisters worry. Sutton cried at the last dinner you missed.”

Then, just as quickly as he lost control, he pulls back, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine once more.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sighing and squeezing his eyes shut, like he’s trying to rein himself in. “You don’t fight fair.”

I smile, running my hands up his chest again, slower this time. Relishing in the fact that I can touch him like this now, like I’ve wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on his angry, axe-wielding ass.

“Never said I did,” I murmur.

He stays still for a beat, still holding onto me, like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. “You’re really not going to let me work through dinner, are you?”

“Nope.” I grin, my lips brushing his as I speak.

“Fine,” he mutters, stepping back, but not before pressing one last lingering kiss to my lips. “But if Isaac pisses me off, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal.” I smirk, as he helps me down from the bench.

I reach out, catching his hand as we leave the barn.

I hold onto him on the four-wheeler and breathe him in the entire ride to the main house. The fact that I got him to come to dinner makes me feel like I’ve won something. Something rare and special, the same way I feel each time I make him smile.

DINNER IS AMAZING,AS ALWAYS—some kind of roast and vegetables with cherry pie for dessert. But I’m practically falling asleep at the table. And I didn’t realize how truly sore my body was until I sat down for a lengthy period of time.

I don’t know how Wyatt and Isaac do this. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s kicking my ass in ways even my morning yoga isn’t repairing.

Up early, physical and backbreaking work from dawn till dark with very few breaks to down some coffee, trying not to fall asleep during dinner, then nearly crying from relief in the shower, only to crawl into bed like an invalid, knowing it starts all over again in a few short hours.

I vowed not to complain, so I don’t.

But when I limp toward the four-wheeler after dinner, Wyatt notices.