Page 25 of Tempting Wyatt (Triple Creek Ranch #1)

“Jesus,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away.

“Need me to leave so you can pray?”

His mouth twitches. “I was actually just thinking about worshipping on my knees now that you mention it.”

We’re locked in some sort of standoff, whoever blinks first loses. I refuse to look away even though I can feel him battling with himself.

“It’s a really bad idea,” he says quietly.

I nod because he’s not wrong. “Probably. But you don’t seem like the kind of man who runs from bad ideas.”

“I think you have me confused with Caleb.”

I give a short shake of my head. “I could never confuse you with anyone. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Never met anyone like you either. Fancy face, sassy-ass attitude. Stronger and more stubborn than you look.”

I smile wide at the compliments. “Not sure what to do with me?”

“I know exactly what to do with you. I just really fucking shouldn’t.”

The battle he’s fighting with himself is as fascinating as it is confusing. I shrug, causing my wide-necked shirt to slip off my shoulder. “Then don’t.”

“Doesn’t feel like I’ve had much of a choice lately.”

“You always have a choice, rancher. Take what you want or play it safe. Either way, you should join your family for dinner.”

I step out of his grasp and turn to leave. One thing my childhood taught me was not to beg for attention and affection from people who couldn’t give it.

I’ve barely turned away from him when I hear it. The low gravelly words that stop me in my tracks.

“Fuck it.”

His hand encircles my waist, and my body is yanked backward and turned to face his. Before the surprised gasp can leave my lips, his mouth is on mine, rough and demanding, tasting of frustration and something sharp like whiskey and sweet like mint.

My knees go weak as I melt against him.

His hands grip my waist hard enough to remind me that I’m not imagining this, that it’s really happening.

Then I’m airborne in his arms just before he spins us and plants my ass on his waist-high workbench.

A disgruntled mewing from a displaced kitten nearby barely registers as his tongue slides inside my mouth.

I moan like a woman possessed.

I could taste the inside of this man’s mouth for hours. His thick, warm tongue lashes powerfully against mine, and the whimpers escape before I can stop them. He swallows my cries in his mouth as his hands roam purposefully over my body.

He’s everywhere. Imprinting the taste and feel of himself into every inch of me. He’s a powerful kisser, growing wilder and hotter every second that this continues.

Our mouths sync into a feverish dance of kissing, licking, and sucking. The back-and-forth exchange of power makes me dizzy. The barn spins around us, and I wrap my legs around him, pulling his body as close as I can manage.

I shouldn’t want him like this. Shouldn’t even be thinking about diving into a hookup or anything even relationship adjacent after the mess with Malcolm. But I crave the way this man pushes me to my limits, the way he makes me feel more alive than I ever have.

And now that I’ve had a taste of him, I only want more.

I’m dry humping him shamelessly in a barn. And I have no regrets.

When his hands dive into my hair and his lips drag down my throat, I know there’s no stopping this now.

The kiss isn’t taking the edge off. It’s making my need for him stronger—fuel on a blazing fire.

His breath catches. He pulls back, just for a second.

His hands are still holding my face. Not pulling me in, not pushing me away.

He’s simply holding me there. Steady. In place.

Watching me, no, memorizing me. I recognize the want in his eyes because I’m certain it’s a reflection of the need in mine.

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 my head 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.

I moan softly when he helps me onto the ATV, and he glares as if my pain offends him personally.

“You’re hurting.”

It’s a statement of fact, not a question, so I say nothing. If I couldn’t smell the farm animals on me, I’d skip the shower, fall face down on the floor, and sleep on the plush rug.

“Ivy, look at me.”

Turning my head slowly, I meet his darkened gaze. “I’m fine. Hot shower will help.”

“Fine, my ass.” His brow dips inward. “Forget the shower. I’ll run you a bath. There should be Epsom salts in the cabin.”

Without another word, he cranks the ATV, and I hold on to him for dear life as we tear off toward my cabin. Every bump is an assault on my aching muscles.

Wyatt helps me inside, then disappears into the bathroom. I take the opportunity to collapse into a kitchen chair.

Every ligament and tendon in my body aches. The thought of getting undressed makes me want to weep.

With the sound of running water threatening to lull me to sleep, Wyatt reappears.

“Looks like you overdid it this week,” he says softly.

“Maybe just a little.” I don’t have the strength to argue.

I blink up at him as muscles I didn’t know I had pulse angrily beneath my skin.

“Let’s get you in the bath.”

His words rouse me from impending exhaustion. I regard him with wide eyes as he kneels down to remove my boots.

This view never gets old. This massive, powerful man, an indulgent display of tanned muscle, on his knees for me.

A new pulsing—one I didn’t expect to have the energy for—throbs between my thighs. The memory of our encounter in the barn breathes a fire of renewed energy into me.

A whimper escapes my lips. He mistakes it for pain as he pulls off my other boot.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Can you stand?”

I don’t even know at this point. But my knees are weak for reasons other than the ones he’s concerned about.

“I can try.”

He helps me up, and together, we remove my jeans and my shirt.

I try not to let it hurt my feelings when Wyatt averts his gaze.

“If you can remove the rest, I’ll help you to the tub.”

Swallowing thickly, I lower my underwear and step out of them before unclasping my bra and letting it fall to the floor. Goose bumps rise on every inch of my skin.

As exposed as I feel, there’s something else happening inside me. Something more than lust and desire warming my blood.

I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me.

I’ve gotten the flu a few times in my life. My mom was a leave-a-trash-can-by-the-bed-on-her-way-out-the-door kind of mom. And Malcolm would bail, saying he couldn’t risk getting sick and missing work.

My agent took me to the ER once when I had food poisoning, but other than that, I’ve always been on my own when I was under the weather.

Wyatt clears his throat and lifts me into his arms. Cradling my naked body, he carries me to the tub like I’m merely a doll.

I cry out louder than I mean to when he lowers me into the tub full of warm water.

“Too hot?”

Yes, you are, I think, but don’t say out loud.

“It’s perfect,” I tell him.

Remnants of the salts on the bottom of the tub and the scent of lavender ignite my senses and soothe me at the same time. Wyatt sits on the side of the tub and cuts the faucet off.

The air is thick and humid from the steam. I can already feel the knots in my back loosening.

“I’m going to get you some ibuprofen, and then I’m going to bathe you,” he says evenly, meeting my eyes for the first time since I—well, we—took my clothes off. “And then I’m going to massage your sore muscles and put you to bed.”

I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to go to all this trouble, even though it sounds like heaven.

He places a warm finger over my lips. “I’m not asking, Ivy. I’m telling you. Hang tight.”

With that, he leaves, and I lay my head back against the tub and close my eyes.

Tomorrow, I’ll be embarrassed that he saw me naked. Tomorrow, I’ll worry that this made me appear weak.

Vulnerable.

But tonight, I’m going to let him take care of me.