Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Hear what I said? Aidan is busy reading a script.”
The vibration of his voice against the sensitive skin on my neck is enough to produce a full body shiver. Shane kicks the feed room door closed and pulls a condom out of his pocket. Without breaking eye contact, he rips the package open with his teeth. We glance down together to see his erection standing proudly between us. Taking my hand, he gives me the condom.
“You do it,” he orders and watches me put it on.
The sight of his eyes fluttering shut and the hard set of his jaws fascinates me. The pleasure he feels because I’m touching and stroking him is the sexiest sight I’ve ever seen. Shane never willingly relinquishes power and control, so the fact that he’s gifting it to me makes my knees go weak. To be fair, everything about him makes my knees go weak.
Once the condom is on, he picks me up and holds me against the wall. Shoving my shorts and panties aside, he touches me softly at first. The wetter I get the more he pushes me open.
“So sweet. So soft. You feel so good, baby.” He pushes my hips down and thrust up. First in shallow movements, then deeper and deeper until I can feel him hitting the magic spot that Jaime couldn’t find in four years with a magnifying glass.
“It’s you. Always you. You’re all I think about. Morning, noon, and night.” With each declaration, he thrusts harder and harder.
“Shane, look at me,” I whisper and he does. We stare at each other as he pushes us closer and closer to climax, thrusting harder and harder.
Tears crowd my eyes. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to go without telling him how I feel. That I love him. That I don’t want him to leave. But I suspect he knows all of that because it’s written on my face every time he looks at me and it’s on my lips every time I kiss him.
I come first and have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out. He follows shortly after. Slowly, he lowers me onto the ground and we cling to each other while we catch our breath.
“Every time I smell oats and hay I’m gonna get hard from here on out,” he says, breathing roughly. Then I hear, “Where’s the condom?” He’s staring down at his still semi-hard body. Curiosity piqued, I glance down and don’t see it either.
“It’s probably inside of me.”
His head snaps up. His eyes, sharp and focused, search my face. “Are you on the pill?”
If I had any questions about how he feels about kids, now I know. All the happy thoughts I was entertaining the last few days spiral down the drain.
“No, Shane, I am not on the pill. Have you had a vasectomy?”
At my angry outburst, his expression shifts, his mouth kicking up on one side like this is a big joke. “Hey now. No need for that.”
“Maybe you should’ve asked before you nailed me to the wall.”
Angry at the look on his face, I push past him, throw open the door, and march to the small office with the bathroom attached. In the bathroom, I take off my clothing and manage feats only a boneless gymnast could accomplish to search my privates for a lost condom. Somehow, I hook a finger and get lucky.
I open the bathroom door to find Shane standing a few feet away leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He’s so hot he doesn’t look real.
He pushes off and reaches me in two giant steps. Then he grabs my face and kisses me like it’s the last kiss of his tender, young life. And he doesn’t stop. No. He only stops kissing me when all the stiffness has left my body and I melt into him.
“I found it,” I say in a low, dejected voice. “Being a paramedic comes in handy.”
“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together. Okay? Together.”
I don’t say anything in return. My mind feels satisfied with his answer, but my heart says not to trust my mind.
Mona runs into the barn the next day while I’m de-worming some of the animals. Mona never runs. Not even if a pack of wild dogs were chasing her. Not even if there was a sale on bootleg designer jeans at Neiman Marcus. Which is how I know something’s happened.
“There’s a person here to see you,” she says, hanging over the door of Milo our resident llama’s stall.
“Who?”
“A teenage girl. Said she’s writing an article for the school newspaper on you.”
“Me? Why would she write one on me? How does she even know me?”
Then I think of the rescue and our social media accounts. I’m all over them. Which is the only way she could know me.