Chapter 17
seventeen
. . .
SIENNA
“Eating dinner,” he said, his volume infuriatingly normal.
Brock reached for his water glass and took a slow sip. Under the table, his knee slid away from mine.
I released a breath and picked up my fork. Good. He was going to behave.
The relief lasted about one second.
Instead of denim, his rough palm settled squarely on my bare thigh. My spine locked. My fork hovered halfway to my mouth. The sundress had ridden up, leaving a dangerous stretch of bare skin, and Brock’s hand took full advantage.
I lowered my fork. His calluses dragged over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. A sharp sound escaped my throat, which I disguised as a cough.
Wren glanced over. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I cleared my throat. “Eating too fast.”
Silas smiled. "Slow down and drink some water, sweetheart."
I reached for my glass. Brock’s fingers flexed and slid higher. I snapped my knees together, staring a hole through my plate, battling the reckless urge to open my legs for him.
He moved another inch. His fingertips slipped under the lace hem of my underwear and stopped.
I cut my eyes toward him. His jaw held no tension. He chewed his pasta with maddening calm while Colt and Silas argued across the table.
"Price per ton went up again," Colt said. "Third time this year."
"Then stop overfeeding," Silas said.
"I'm not overfeeding, the horses are just—"
"You are,” Wren cut in. “Nova’s getting heavy.” She pointed her fork at her brother. “If my horse gets fat, I won’t be able to compete. Stop messing with her feed.”
His hand didn't move. The tips of two fingers rested inside the lace, warm against the skin of my hip.
The rigatoni and the garlic bread turned to ash in my mouth. Nothing existed except the weight of his palm and the stillness of his fingers. Every time he shifted in his chair, the lace pulled just slightly—a reminder of how close he was.
I planted my elbows on the table, paralyzed. If I moved, someone would notice the tilt of my hips. Or worse, one twitch would drag his fingers exactly where I wanted them, and my face would give us away.
By the time the serving dishes were empty, I might as well have run a marathon. Heat flushed my skin, and sweat gathered at the nape of my neck.
Brock finished everything, wiped his mouth, and dropped the napkin onto his plate. Under the table, his hand gave my thigh one final, punishing squeeze before slipping away.
He pushed back. The chair legs shrieked against the floorboards.
"Thanks for dinner, Sienna." His blue eyes caught mine. "That was incredible pasta."
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. "You're welcome."
He grabbed his hat from the peg. "Heading to the barn. Gonna check Nova's feed bucket before it gets dark. Someone needs to make sure Colt isn't sabotaging Wren's barrel times."
Colt pointed a half-eaten piece of garlic bread at him. "Hey, I measure the scoops!"
"Don't overdo the shoulder," Silas called.
"I won't."
Brock pushed through the back door. It slammed shut behind him.
I forced myself to sit there for twelve agonizing minutes. I drained a glass of ice water to cool my burning cheeks, then stood to clear the plates and load the dishwasher.
"I need some fresh air," I said, wiping my hands on a dish towel. "Gonna walk off that rigatoni."
"Take a flashlight if you go past the treeline," Silas warned.
"I will."
I slipped out the back door, forcing my legs into a slow, casual stroll.
The evening air bit at my flushed skin, and the sky bruised into deep purples over the Bighorns. I kept my pace steady across the gravel yard until the kitchen window dropped out of sight. Then I sprinted for the barn.
The heavy double doors stood open. Deep shadows swallowed the interior, heavy with the scent of sweet feed and oiled leather.
Brock wasn't checking Nova's feed bucket. He waited in the center aisle, leaning his good shoulder against a wooden support post. His hat sat low over his eyes.
My shoes hit the dirt floor. He reached out, caught my waist, and yanked me into the shadows against his chest.
My hands flew to his shoulders, fists knotting in his shirt.
"You are out of your damn mind."
"Took you long enough." His mouth hovered a breath from mine. His gaze dropped to the V-neck of my sundress. "Jesus, Sienna. This fucking dress."
"We agreed to be careful! You had your hand between my legs for twenty minutes!"
"I was careful." His hands slid down to grip my hips. "Nobody can see under that table. It's solid oak."
"That doesn't make it safe. I couldn't breathe, let alone eat!"
"You seemed to enjoy it just fine. You were squirming in your chair."
I glared up at him. My heart hammered a frantic beat against my ribs. "It was risky."
His eyes dragged down the pale yellow fabric. "I really like the dress. It's damn near impossible to keep my hands to myself when you wear something like that."
I crossed my arms, fighting the smile tugging at my lips and the heat pooling between my legs. "Oh, please. I wore a dress the first day I got here. You didn’t seem to like it then."
Brock stepped flush against me, pinning my hips to the wooden post. I gasped. He was hard, pressing heavy against my stomach through his denim.
"I liked it. Believe me, I liked it." His voice dropped. "The second you stepped out of that car, I saw exactly how gorgeous you were."
"You did not. You looked at me like I was an alien, then judged my shoes."
"I was trying to push you away." He reached down. His rough fingers traced the bare skin of my thigh, and a shiver ran down my spine. "I was trying to run you off."
"You were being such an asshole."
"I was." His palm shoved the skirt up. Calluses scraped my skin. "But I'm not now."
A shaky breath rattled my chest. His fingers traced the lace edge of my underwear.
"Brock, we're going to get caught."
"Not out here."
His mouth crashed over mine, hot and demanding. I melted against him. My hands fisted in his shirt while his tongue swept my mouth.
He backed me harder into the support post. His hand shoved the dress to my waist and slipped under the lace. Two thick fingers dragged over my wetness before pushing inside me in one smooth stroke.
My body clenched tight around him. I bit my lip, but a moan escaped anyway.
"Soaking wet." His fingers slid deeper. "You sat through dinner dripping for me, didn't you?"
"Shut up."
My breath hitched as my hips rolled into his fingers. He curled them deep, his thumb working slow circles that dragged soft moans from my throat. The wet sound of his hand echoed in the heavy silence of the barn.
He nudged his hat back with two fingers, clearing a path to my ear.
"Quiet." His hot breath ghosted across my skin. "You gotta stay quiet, Starlin’."