Page 14 of Wrangling Wade

And then I grumble and set my brush on the side of my palette before wiping my hands off on my smock before pulling it off over my head. I duck back through the door into the kitchen, wiping sweat from my brow.

"Just a minute!" I shout when the bell rings again before I even cross the small kitchen, my feet silent on the worn linoleum.

I don't bother checking the peephole before I unlock the door. This is Silver Spoon Falls, and I have nothing worth stealing. But as soon as I yank the door open to see Wade standing on my porch in dark jeans and a blue flannel button-down, a white Stetson perched on his head, I instantly regret my decision.

He looks like sex on legs. I look precisely like I've spent all day playing with paint. We are not the same. Not even close.

He glances at me from beneath the brim of his hat, his brown eyes running down my body, taking in every splatter of paint, every bead of sweat, every wild, unkempt curl, every hole in my shirt, and my bare feet. His lips curve into a wicked grin. "Damn, baby," he drawls. "Just when I think I've seen my favorite side of you, you go proving me wrong."

I cross my arms, trying to hide the fact that I'm most definitely not wearing a bra. On my day off? Could never be me. "What are you doing here?" Actually, that's not even the most pressing question at the moment. "And how do you even know where I live?"

"This is Silver Spoon Falls, beautiful. Everyone knows everything about everyone else's business." He leans up against the rickety porch railing, still grinning like he wants to have me for dinner. "It took me all of two seconds to find out where you live."

"Well…that's not great news."

His brows furrow with confusion.

"I work at a bar, Wade. If you can find me that fast, so can anyone else," I grumble, not liking that thought.

Apparently, he doesn't either, because his expression instantly turns arctic. "No one who wants to live will be darkening your doorstep, Harlow. I can promise you that much."

I open my mouth to respond, but I have no idea what to even say to that. So I just shake my head instead. "What are you doing here?"

"I need you to come with me."

I gape at him for a full five count. "Are you kidding me right now? You showed up at my doorstep for a date I told you I didn't want to go on?"

"Yes." He grins like a proud little boy. "And before you say no or kick my ass for it, there's a reason."

"Wanting to sleep with me isn't a reason, Wade Jessup."

"You think that's why I'm here, Harlow?" he asks, far too serious.

"I…" Do I really think that? I don't know. I think, as beautiful as he is, he could sleep with damn near anyone with a whole lot less effort than he's put into…whatever he's been doing with me for the last week. But does he want to sleep with me? Yeah, he does. It's written all over his face every time he looks at me like he wants to eat me alive.

He pushes away from the railing, the old boards creaking beneath his feet as he prowls toward me, moving like a panther. Part of my brain screams that I should back up or close the door in his face. The other part demands that I stand my ground and see just how far he's willing to go here.

I'm not entirely surprised when he hooks an arm around my waist, hauling me up against his chest. I feel the hard bulge of his erection nestle against my belly, feel the heat of his big body searing into me. Good God, the man is hard everywhere.

My core temperature skyrockets, my entire body clenching. I plant my hands against his shoulders, though I'm not sure if I mean to push him off or keep him right here.

I don't really get a chance to find out before his mouth is on my neck, his stubble scraping my skin in a way that has me ready tocrawl out of my skin just to taste him. Just to feel him above me, moving like magic.

"Wade," I say…moan, really.

His lips trail toward my ear, his teeth raking the tendon in the side of my neck. "As much as I'd love you naked beneath me, baby, I'm a patient motherfucker," he rasps against the shell of my ear. "Doesn't matter how hard you've had my cock all week. Doesn't matter how many times I've jerked it raw, moaning your name. I'm not rushing you." His hand curves around my jaw, tilting my head back. "Do I want to sleep with you?" His eyes meet mine. "More than I want to breathe."

I whimper. At least, I think that's what you call the pathetic, needy sound that escapes my lips. It's soft and loud at the same time, like it escaped my damn soul.

"But that's not why I'm here now, and it's not why I've been at the bar for the last week, either."

I lick my lips, staring at him. "Then why?"

His expression softens, his rough fingers feathering along my cheek. "You know exactly why, beautiful."

The worst part of that statement isn't that I don't know. It's that I do. Ifeelit in my soul, growing like the ivy that used to overtake our front porch every summer. Didn't matter how often we cut it back or tried to poison it, the stuff just kept growing until it'd claimed every inch of space it could find.

He's going to do the same thing—claim every inch of space he can, claim pieces of me I didn't even know existed. It's what he wants. I think it's what he's wanted from the very beginning.