Before he can move a millimeter, I wrap my legs around his torso, locking my ankles behind his back. “You should not.”
All the reasons why we shouldn’t do this? I bat them away in favor of reasons we should. “We’re adults. We’re sharing a room. Who cares if we can’t get along in the daylight? If memory serves, we did okay in the dark.”
“Better than okay, if you ask me,” he says, his voice low and growly. Nosing along my jaw toward the space behind my ear, creating goosebumps as he goes, he whispers, “I’ve thought about that night every day for the past nine months.”
“I’ve been mad at you for the past nine months.” He stiffens, separating our torsos, but I dig my fingernails between his shoulder blades to keep him from going too far. “However, I have made so many friends telling the story. Women never get tired of hearing about guys who are assholes.”
Grinning, I slide my hands around to his pecs and run my hands over them appreciatively. He’s not as broad or tall as his brothers, but I love his lean, contoured chest and shoulders. “Helps if the guy is wicked hot and super smart.”
“You think I’m smart?”
I snort. “What, the hotness isn’t in question?”
Dropping his weight on one arm, he uses the other hand to circle one pebbled nipple and then the other through my sleep shirt. “I’ve got evidence that you’re attracted to me.”
“Eh.” I shrug one shoulder. “Maybe I’m just cold.”
“I’m doing my best to warm you up,” he growls. “But I think we need to be skin to skin to optimize the results.”
After we both shed our shirts, he flips us so that he’s on the bottom. Broad palms spread across my back, calluses I don’t remember from our last encounter faintly scratching my skin. The flannel-wearing version of Samuel seems to have all kinds of bonuses.
Reaching a hand between us and inside the waistband of his adorably old-fashioned plaid boxers, I pause before I hit the heat seeking missile he’s packing. “Wait. You don’t have a string of farmer’s daughters pining after you all over the state, do you?”
He looks off to the right, lips twisted to the side like he’s trying to remember. “Only in the southern tier.”
“Why just there?”
“That’s my territory. Or it was. Till I got transferred.”
I nod slowly as my hand resumes its exploration. “And now they’re all in mourning.”
“To be honest”—he breaks off with a groan as I grip him and run a thumb over his wet tip—“it’s the dog that everyone falls for.”
“Poor you.” I press his length to my cleft, he cups my ass cheeks under my sleep shorts, and we move together, the friction delicious.
“Yeah, he’s the chick magnet. I usually disappoint in comparison.” His hands skate up my sides and cup my breasts, tweaking both nipples with his thumbs. “When I was a suit, it was different.”
I arch into his hands. “But you were an asshole then.”
Sitting up, he pulls me close, cupping the back of my head with one hand and my lower back with the other. “Luckily, I wasn’t very good at it.”
He reaches between us and slides one finger inside me, then another. “You’re very good at this,” I whisper. “Almost an expert.”
“Takes one to know one.”
After that, only nonsense words make it from my brain to my lips as he works me inside and out, hands and mouth seemingly everywhere. And then I’m right on the edge, hanging by a thread. He strokes a spot deep inside I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, and then he stops my shout-moans with a kiss as I fall, shuddering, on top of him.
CHAPTER 15DIANE
Who knew that having a secret affair could be so hot? I’ve never looked forward to going to bed so much in my life. Or waking up, for that matter, since Sam is pretty darn good at taking me to climax no matter the hour. Without even having to get in the car.
Ha-ha—I’m already making Greene County jokes like the locals.
It’s not easy to keep quiet, but it’s a small price to pay for night after night of secret bliss.
The twin bed is a little small, but the nights are getting cooler, so spending them spooning with a strapping farm boy is no hardship.
I mean, it’d also be fun to be able to snuggle with Sam on the front porch swing or give him a peck on the cheek at dinner, but I get why he wants to keep things between us on the down low. His grandmother seems okay with the fact that his brothers are shacking up with their girlfriends without being married, but I guess she might worry about Sam hooking up with a girl who won’t be sticking around.
It’s just that all the reasons why I can’t plant roots here seem less and less important with each passing day. Yes, I should be traveling to make content for my channel, but I’m the one in charge. Why shouldn’t I focus it on one region? Or keep traveling, but have a base to come home to? Where a cute dog and a hot guy in flannel await my return, not to mention weekly dinners with the kind of extended family I’ve always dreamed of?
It all seems possible, until I picture Sam—not to mention the rest of his family—finding out what my grandfather discovered and the many ways my parents have profited from his work. How could they see me as anything other than a spoiled little rich girl and a complete hypocrite?
I wish I had the courage to publicly renounce my family, instead of creeping around pretending to make a difference with my little nonprofit and my silly videos. But I’d rather pretend I’m doing good than face the truth: I’m just another tiny voice shouting into a howling wind.
Suddenly exhausted, I close my computer without even bothering to check that I’ve saved the edits on my latest video. Too depressed to do anything useful, I head outside for some fresh air, leaving my camera behind.
The morning was cold and rainy, which is why I’ve been editing. When I step onto the porch now, though, sunlight filters through the trees lining the driveway, making the leaves glow almost neon green, but I resist the urge to run back inside so I can record the gorgeous view. I need a reset, and diving right back into making content when I’m feeling down won’t be productive, no matter how pretty the pictures.
A buzzing noise I don’t recognize starts up. Following the sound around the side of the sheep castle, I eventually find a man bent over its queen, improbably snuggled between his legs, belly up. Ethel perches on a low stool close by, talking to Baabara and whisking wool out of the way as the man clips it. When she notices me, she brings a finger to her lips, indicating that I should be quiet, before waving me closer.
“Baabara’s a bit shy when she’s being sheared,” Ethel explains in a low, soothing voice once I’ve sidled up next to her. “But Cillian McCarthy’s an artist.”
The man doesn’t look up, just grunts as he turns off the shearers and rearranges the sheep’s position, tucking one of her forelegs behind his knee. When he starts up again, he pulls her skin tight with one hand as he runs the clippers over it with the other, leaving behind the smooth, pink skin of her belly and then her flank.
“He’s the best shearer in the entire Hudson valley. Oh, and you two might be related. Her last name is McCarthy too, Cillian.”
“There’re a mess of McCarthys in the world, Ethel.” The man’s accented voice is gruff, but the laugh lines around his green eyes deepen as he speaks. “Where in Ireland are yer people from, miss?”
I wince. “I’m not sure exactly. I think my McCarthy strain has been in the States for some time. But my grandparents planted an apple orchard south of here.”
“Smarter than growin’ potatoes,” he says with a wink. When he gets the clippers going again, Baabara’s skin wiggles, and Cillian mutters something to the sheep.
“Does it hurt her?” I whisper.
“Course not,” he says. “She’s just antsy. Just a bit more, wee girl.”
Ethel quietly drags another stool over and gestures for me to sit next to her. It’s oddly soothing to watch the man run clippers over Baabara’s curves, the blobs of fiber bobbing to the floor around us, and my worries fade away. An impressive, fluffy pile of wool grows behind the sheep as he twists her body into what looks like sheep yoga positions, shearing the wool from every bit of her body. Ethel has been eager to record the entire process, from sheep to needles, so I’m surprised she’s not recording this. “How come you’re not filming?” I ask quietly.
She lifts her finger to her lips again and then mouths “I am.” Pointing to her phone, which is suspended above the sheep and shearer, she whispers, “I don’t want Baabara to be embarrassed, so don’t say anything.”
Nodding slowly, suppressing a giggle, I give her a thumbs up.
When he’s done, Ethel gives the sheep a kiss on the nose and a treat, and then Baabara literally kicks up her heels before cantering away into a field.
Cillian tips his hat at Ethel, which makes her blush again, before bidding me a gruff goodbye and driving away. After Ethel resets her phone on a tripod—the one I gave her when I first visited, fibbing that it was an extra—I hold the bag open while she gathers the wool and stuffs it inside. She explains how she’ll skirt and scour the wool before spinning it, and then I suggest she repeat the instructions to the camera.
