Page 23 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Shit.

I stumble back like I’ve been caught committing a crime.

Because technically, I have.

I’m down the stairs and out of that house in seconds, adrenaline punching through my veins. I hit the truck, slam the door, sit there panting, already working open the buttons of my jeans before I’ve even registered what the fuck I’m doing.

Fucking hell.

I free my throbbing, rock-hard cock, gripping it tight and starting to stroke it. Giving in to the possessive hunger clawing in my chest.

Every detail burns behind my closed eyes—her slick pussy, the way she arched up off the bed, how her breath hitched right before my name escaped her lips. My fucking name.

The thought of her coming undone thinking about me makes me fist myself hard. My head falls back against the seat, hips rocking up into my hand, trying to match the pace she used.

I ignore the voice inside my head telling me she is off-limits. Frankly, that just makes me want her more. Makes me want to bury my face so deeply between her thighs and taste her until she’s screaming my name instead of whispering it.

I come hard, groaning low as I release myself over my stomach and fingers.

It takes me a minute to gather enough energy to grab an old t-shirt from the back of the truck and clean myself up.

What the fuck just happened?

And how the fuck am I supposed to keep my hands, my distance, from Maeve after seeing her that bare?

No matter how badly I am enticed by her, for reasons I cannot make sense of, I can’t give in to anything like this again.

For my sake. For the ranch’s sake. And for Colt’s.

Sweat beads down my face as I grip the rope around the kicking calf’s hind legs, trying to keep the little bastard still while Wyatt controls the front. My arms ache and dust clings to every inch of me. The repetitive strain of pinning calf after calf has worn me raw.

“Ready,” I grunt towards Bryan, who surprisingly has the steadiest hands out of all my men. He steps forward from the fire pit, holding the iron rod, the ranch’s logo glowing red-hot at its tip.

He gives me a short nod, and we tighten our hold.

The searing hiss of iron pressing into the calf’s flesh is sharp. The calf bawls, high and pained, echoing in my ears. I wince, the acrid stench of burnt hair burning the back of my throat. No matter how many times I’ve done this, or the knowledge that the pain doesn’t last long, it never gets easier. One of the reasons I stayed far from the butchering game.

“Next one!” someone calls in the distance.

I release the calf and stand, watching it scramble off in the direction guided by the ranch hands. My shirt sticks to my chest, soaked in sweat from the relentless summer heat and the fire’s flames. A wave of dizziness hits me hard, making me sway.

My fault, really. I skipped out on breakfast, trying to avoid Maeve after last night's… events. That, and the fact that I was up half of the night, thinking about her, processing everything that had happened. How has one random girl gotten under my skin so fucking much? Just as my thoughts begin to race all over again, I stumble forward, grabbing the fencing to steady myself.

“Whoa, Boss, you good?” Wyatt hurries over as I place my hand on my head in an attempt to stop the spinning.

“Yeah. Just overheating. Think I need to call it for a bit,” I respond, acting fine even though nothing about me is fine. “Right boys! Let’s break for lunch. Make sure you fuckers are fuelled to do the rest later.”

Quiet celebrations break out as they start packing away. I hang back, gathering myself before slowly following them towards the house. Each step takes more effort than I care to admit.

Children’s laughter fills the air the closer I get to the house. I forgot the riding school is on today. Easily done, given it’s Colt’s little piece of the ranch and a world away from the day-to-day chaos I usually deal with.

The midday sun beats down on the paddock, turning the dust kicked up by tiny boots and hooves into a golden haze. A few parents who decided to stay watch scattered around the fence, iced coffees and phones in hand, while a handful of kids wait impatiently for their turn, helmets slightly crooked and excitement written all over their faces.

I glance over to the round pen and spot Colt being his all-attentive self with the kids. He’s a good teacher, my boy. Got the patience of a saint with everyone, except me. And he’s instantly likable, unlike me.

Then I see Maeve. Standing in the corner of the pen. My heart beats faster as I close the distance between us, noticing the curve of her legs in those dark denim shorts that cut halfway up her thighs—thighs I want to bury my head in between. Her golden skin has deepened since she arrived here, making me wonder if there are any tan lines hidden under that shirt for me to explore.

That confirms it. I’m screwed.