Page 24 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

Lawson’s body goes completely still, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve just sent him into full-blown cardiac arrest.

Not impossible. He’s older than me, and it happened to me, so it could definitely happen to him.

How much older is he again?

Oh, right. Thirty-seven. I know that because I’ve memorized his birthday.

Along with his social security number and probably his license plate and blood type if I thought hard enough.

Not because I’m unhinged, though the jury’s still out, but because I’m an overachiever and I've needed this information more times than I thought I'd need it over the past year of working for him and booking flights and hotel room stays.

A dedicated employee. The kind of woman who reads HR files like bedtime stories and knows way too much about her boss for someone who isn’t romantically involved with him.

Yet here I am, teasing him about orgasm strategy like it’s a business pitch.

Drawing out the tension, asking him to prove to me that slow and steady wins the race when I’m firmly on Team Just-Get-To-It and Get-Through-It.

How he’s planning to prove his point? No idea.

Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly how he could end this debate, but I can’t picture Lawson crossing that line tonight.

His silence isn’t helping my already-frantic pulse or the creeping fear that I’ve just wrecked everything good between us by suggesting something way outside the bounds of boss and employee.

“First,” Lawson finally says, turning to face me.

His eyes look different, way more intense than they did when I first walked inside his house which I didn't think was possible. He looked like a stiff board sitting there in the darkness and when I finally sunk down onto the couch next to him, he’d visibly relaxed. "I need information."

“Oh, good,” I say lightly, masking the way my heart has just jackknifed in my chest. “I was sitting here thinking I’d thrown you into cardiac shock.”

His mouth twitches. It’s just a flicker, but it’s enough to tell me he’s still in there somewhere. The guy who enjoys me ribbing him and dishes it back just as good. The guy who I've somehow become best friends with.

“No. I’ve just been gathering my thoughts.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now? You’re usually quicker on your feet.”

“Dani,” he says, voice low and edged with frustration. “My patience is hanging by a thread here.”

I nod my head because what does that mean? Am I annoying him? Or is there a possibility that Lawson wants to cross this line as badly as I do?

I go with the former and stick to what I know. What we know. Banter, playfulness, teasing each other to lighten the mood. Not whatever sexual tension I'm feeling pulsing through all my limbs.

I lift both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t blame me for that.”

His eyes flash, and then God help me, he lets out a growl. “You’re exactly the reason for that. You're the beginning and the end of my problems. You’re the solution and the source, Dani.”

My mouth drops open in shock. That sound, that look, his eyes are locked on me like I’m the only thing he wants. Which… can’t be right. I mean, sure, we flirt. We banter. But this? This feels like something else. Something dangerous.

Maybe I should stop egging my boss on before I screw this job over. This job that I hoped for, fought for and need more than anything. I'm already in dangerous territory ever since my panic attack.

“Okay, okay,” I whisper softer, holding his gaze. “I’ll stop. What do you want to know?”

“I have a question,” he repeats. “Something I’ve been wondering about.”

I nod slowly, suddenly nervous about what he wants to know. “Sure…”

“Dani, was that your first panic attack?”

My breath catches at the way he says my name so tenderly. I wet my lips to buy myself some time because I should have seen this question coming. “No. I've had them before.”

Please don’t ask how many times.

Please don’t ask for my full medical history.

Thankfully, he doesn’t. He nods slowly, processing my response, then clears his throat. “Okay.”

And thank fuck for that. For the fact that he knows me well enough and could probably read the panic that’s blooming behind my eyes to stop before prying further.

I should tell him more. About the panic attacks and the medication to manage them.

About the stroke. The time I ignored my body for too long and ended up in the hospital not remembering how I got there at just twenty-seven because I'd run myself ragged, hitched myself to a man who didn't know the word no or vacation and tried way too hard to become a millionaire before thirty for god knows what reason because it all feels so completely pointless and like a different lifetime now.

But not tonight. That version of me doesn’t belong here. Not in this room alone with him or in Whitewood Creek. That version of me wouldn't attract the friendship or respect of a man like Lawson Marshall.

“Okay,” I whisper back, more breath than sound.

He shifts his weight on the couch then slowly drops to his knees on the ground before settling right between my legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Uh…” My voice catches. “What’s happening?”

“You told me to prove my stance on orgasms.”

I laugh—nervously. “Yeah, but I didn’t think…” I trail off.

I didn’t think you’d actually do it.

I didn’t think you’d want to.

I didn’t think we’d ever cross this line.

I settle on, "We were just talking about my panic attack."

And now you're between my legs, about to prove to me that the slow burn and the tease is better than jack hammering my pussy with my vibrator?

But he’s not looking at me anymore. Not my face, anyway. His hands slide up my legs possessively as he releases a slow, steady breath. He's not rushing, but there's no hesitancy behind his touch. And the way he’s squeezing my thighs is full of confidence like we've done this before.

He reaches my waist, his fingers curling in the waistband of my skirt.

“Lift,” he says using that voice he does when he isn't asking for permission.

I do, without thinking. He slides the fabric past my hips and down my legs along with my reality and my composure, leaving me in just my simple sweatshirt and a no-frills nude thong.

It’s nothing special. Just a thin, practical scrap of fabric in a shade of brown slightly lighter than my skin.

Not sexy. Not meant to be seen. Definitely not meant to impress my boss who I've crushed on for a year. But the way Lawson is looking at me like I’m the most tempting thing he’s ever touched, that makes my skin feel like fire and boosts my confidence.

His fingers skim the inside of my knees, pausing just long enough to let me process the weight of this shift. Somehow, we got from guarded silence and playful banter to this…longing. He clears his throat like a warning.

“Tell me if you want me to stop at any time.”

But he’s not looking at my eyes. He’s looking between my legs like a starving man who’s just found his last meal. And God help me, the heat in his gaze does things to my insides that I can’t even begin to name.

I nod my head. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

His touch moves higher, slow and reverent, trailing fire over my exposed body. His hands squeeze, press, caress until they settle on my thighs again and then he lets out a deep groan. Low and guttural.

And it’s me he’s groaning over. I'm the reason he's making these noises that I've only ever heard in audiobooks or movies.

“Still don’t think the buildup’s better?” he says with so much heat in his voice as he holds my gaze now. "Because this longing to touch you, the torture to not rip off your remaining clothes will make the payoff much better for me when I finally get a taste of you."

I bite my lower lip, too turned on to have a funny comeback to that. “No. It's definitely not better.” I'm lying and he knows it.

He smirks and it only makes him that much more handsome.

"We'll see if you still feel that way in a few minutes."

His fingers inch higher, brushing right where my thigh meets the heat of my center. His thumbs skim over the soft silk of my underwear, and I swear the world stutters on its axis.

Everything sharpens. My skin, my heartbeat, my need for him.

This is Lawson. My boss. The man I’ve kept firmly on the other side of a professional, platonic line.

Except now he’s between my legs, looking at me like I’m his, like he’s ready to undo every boundary we’ve ever built without acknowledging it to each other.

Has he had those thoughts too? The ones where he's told himself to never look at me as something more than untouchable? I don't know, but I refuse to tell him to stop. I refuse to think about the lines that we're blowing past that we shouldn't be.

Will I regret this tomorrow morning? Am I repeating patterns that I swore I’d never fall into again? Maybe.

Okay, yes. But can I stop it? No. Not even a little bit.

Because I want Lawson. I want him to ruin me slowly.

To tease and stretch out every drop of pleasure until I’m wrecked and breathless and still begging for more.

I want to come on something other than my silicone vibrator like I have been every Tuesday night for the past year.

And I want him to prove me wrong. Fuck, I want him to prove me so, so wrong.

His fingers brush over my soaked slit again and I hiss, hips jolting forward.

“Are you just gonna tease me forever?” I bite out.

He chuckles deeply and the sound vibrates right through my core. “Maybe. You said the buildup wasn’t worth it. I'm trying to make a point here.”

“Yeah, well, so far this is just frustrating and not at all worth it , ” I snap.

“By now, my vibrator would’ve already had me coming once and halfway to a second orgasm.

Efficient. Reliable. No," I wave my hands up and down his face, "smoldering stares with sexy, teasing smiles.

I'd put it right where I want it and end this misery.” I shift my hips a little, trying to show him where I want him to touch me.

He growls at that, low and dangerous, and I swear I feel it in my spine. His hands find the band of my thong, and there’s no more hesitation. He drags it down over my hips, past my thighs, all the way to my ankles, leaving me completely bare.

I’m naked on his couch, in his house with legs spread open like an invitation because I can’t close them with his massive chest wedged between them. And he’s kneeling there like he’s worshiping me. Like he’s starving for me.

I one thousand percent should be uncomfortable with this setup but I'm not.

Because if anyone knows me the best in life, strangely, I swear it makes no sense, it's him.

He's spent the most time with this new version of myself since I've changed.

He knows my quirks. He knows my likes and dislikes. He knows my tells.

Lawson knows me. And right now, there’s no one else I’d rather have see me completely than him.