Page 9 of Improper Proposal
“Yeah, very,” I hear from behind me.
I grab my chest and spin to see Will leaning against the door, two cups of coffee in his hand. “Are you trying to scare me half to death?”
He eyes me and asks, “What are you doing?”
“I…I’m just looking at the horses,” I answer, but I get the distinct impression that’s not what he’s really asking me. I turn from him, rub my hand over the horse again, and wait for him to ask me why I’m really here. I’m not about to come right out and tell him about that pact, or that I think George and I were supposed to have epic sex, so I don’t say anything more.
“I brought you coffee,” he says. His clothes rustle as he pushes off the doorframe. His boots scuff the floor as he closes the distance. “I thought you could use a cup.”
“You thought right.”
“I woke early, too, and spotted you coming down here.” He steps up to me and hands me a cup. Our fingers touch, linger, and sexual energy arcs between us. Not great for a woman pretending to be his cousin’s girl.
“Beautiful,” he says, and for a minute I wonder if he’s really talking about the horse.
I take a much-needed sip and let it fuel my body. “She is.”
“George loves to ride, but I guess you already know that.”
“Uh…right.”
“Do you ride?”
“No.”
The corner of his mouth turns up, a lopsided grin that makes him look so damn adorable my thighs quiver again. “And here I thought George would find a girl who loved horses as much as he did.”
He’s not being mean or facetious, he’s simply stating a fact, and I don’t feel defensive when I say, “I always wanted to ride, but we couldn’t afford the lessons when I was young.” I’m just stating a fact, too. But I do wonder why I’m telling him something so personal. Oh, probably because it’s hard to think straight with him standing so close, his goddamn, let’s-do-dirty-things-together scent throwing me off my game.
“Want to take her out?” he asks.
“I can’t.” I shake my head and a few loose strands of hair fall from my ponytail. He stares at them for a moment, his eyes turning a darker shade of blue as he reaches out and brushes them away, the roughness of his fingers bringing on another shiver.
Why would a white-collar consultant from New York have such rough hands? I’m curious, but I don’t ask. I’m also curious about how said hands would feel on my body. I don’t ask for that, either.
But you want to.
“I don’t know how.”
A moment of silence hovers, takes up space between us, then he says, “I do.”
I stand back as he places his coffee on a stool and opens the door to that mare’s stall. He steps inside and runs his hands over her. She whinnies, nudges him with her head, and he laughs.
“Hey, girl, did you miss me?”
“She seems to really like you.” Then again, is there a female around that doesn’t? I can’t imagine there could be. He’s hot, charming, funny, and I definitely want to fall to my knees before him. I clear my throat. “Is she yours?”
“No, but when I’m here, she’s always my first choice.” He fits her with a saddle and leads her from the stall. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
I put my foot in the stirrup, and his big hands span my waist and lift me. It’s a simple gesture, far from intimate, yet I tremble just the same.
“Front or back?” he asks.
I gulp, like he’d just asked if I wanted to be on top or bottom. He angles his head and stares at me and I quickly get myself together and say, “What’s easiest for you?”
He exhales, and a tortured look moves over his face as he scrubs his hand over his chin. “To be honest, either way, I’m going to get a hard-on.”
I laugh. I actually laugh—hard and loud—as his words ease the tension between us.
