Page 71 of Tempting Wyatt

Without moving, his eyes meet mine. “Kind of?”

“Good night, rancher,” I say before softly closing the door between us.

Once I hear him leave the porch and return to his truck, I lean against the door behind me and try to breathe normally. Feels like I held my breath during the entire interaction.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

wyatt

THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER LETTING Sutton off the hook after she’d mucked one stall and helped me tow the side-by-side out of the woods, I step onto the porch with my coffee, intending to clear my head before another long-ass day. Any hope of that vanishes the second I catch sight of Ivy.

Jesus Christ.

She’s on the grass near the stables, bathed in the soft morning light, stretching her body in ways that should be illegal this early in the day. Tight little leggings hugging every curve paired with a sports bra that barely contains her lush tits, nearly separates me from my sanity. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot with just enough pieces falling loose to make a man think about tugging it free.

I take a deliberate swallow of my coffee, pretending I’m not openly watching her.

But I am.

And I can’t fucking stop.

She moves smoothly from one stretch to another, bending, arching, her movements even and controlled, like it’s a danceshe’s practiced many times. My gut tightens as she sinks into some deep backbend, her chest lifting, her throat exposed, the softest sound slipping from her lips as she exhales.

My grip on my mug turns bright white.

She has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does. Maybe she knows damn well that a woman twisting herself into positions that belong in a bedroom is enough to drive a man straight to the edge.

Hell if I’m not already teetering.

My legs move in her direction without me having consciously decided to walk over to her.

Last night, I’d wondered if she’d blown me off for Isaac, but realizing she had gone to help my baby sister and was going to let her sleep over had me feeling too much at once.

Ivy isn’t at all like the spoiled Hollywood princess I thought she was when she first arrived.

She’s kind. Compassionate.

She’s whip-smart and sassy in the sexiest way I’ve ever seen, and she fits in here, even when she shouldn’t. Hell of a lot sturdier than she looks, and apparently flexible as fuck.

Great. Just great.

The woman of my dreams lives a world away.

I clear my throat, and she startles, twisting her head to look at me. A knowing smile spreads across her face, like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.

Or like she was twisting herself into a pretzel in full view of my cabin, and I took the bait.

What beautiful fucking bait it is.

“Didn’t take you for a yoga guy,” she muses, sitting back on her heels.

“I’m not.” I take another sip of coffee, carefully and measured, masking the heat crawling up my neck. “But maybe I should be if it means I’d be that flexible.”

Her laughter is low and warm, wrapping around me in a way that makes my blood run hot.

“Well,” she says, pushing to her feet and dusting off her hands, “yoga is great for stress relief. Might help with that ever-present tension of yours.”

I cock a brow, smirking. “Got other ways of relieving stress.”