For some reason, with Catalina, it seems to hit harder. Maybe it’s because she’s not like the others; she’s not pretending to be something she’s not.
My fingers move slowly through my hair, trying to shake the thoughts loose. I scoff, tucking that thought back into the deep parts of my brain as I head for the shed, where she’s probably waiting. Oblivious to how deep she’s already under my skin.
I haul the mower out to the far pasture and watch Catalina drag her feet across the grass, grumbling under her breath the whole way.
She’s wearing some ridiculous designer T-shirt, tiny denim shorts, and an attitude big enough to flatten a bull.
I smirk to myself. The fancy clotheshasto be a shield. All of it—the sass, the stilettos, the mouthy attitude—it’s a defense mechanism. A wall she’s built between herself and the world so no one can see how fucking scared she is underneath it all.
Fuck, if I don’t want to be the one to crack her walls down.
We’re out in the pasture, and the hot Tennessee sun burns down on us. The mower hums low as I work the far rows. Catalina’s supposed to be helping, supposed to bepicking up rocks and debris before I run over it, but it’s clear she’s only half paying attention.
She’s far behind me, walking lazily, swatting at her hair. Probably muttering complaints about bugs, dirt, and how this entire place is ‘barbaric.’
A high-pitched shriek splits through the breeze. I quickly hop off the mower, whipping around just in time to see her throwing herself across the grass toward me, eyes wide with terror.
“Get it off me, GET IT FUCKING OFF OF ME!!” she shrieks, waving her hands frantically through her hair.
Before I can react, she launches herself at me, slamming into my chest so hard I stagger back a step, and catch her out of pure reflex. My hands automatically grab her waist to keep us both from crashing to the ground.
The heat of her—the scent of her—hits me like a punch to the gut. Peach shampoo, and that undercurrent of brown sugar and vanilla that drives me fucking insane.
“Jesus, Catalina,” I growl, my hands finding her waist, my fingers curling hard against her bare skin above the waistband of her shorts. “It’s just a bug.”
“No, it was a fucking mutant spider, I swear to GOD it had fangs the size of my head!” she gasps, clutching at my shirt.
I brush my hand down her bare arm, nothing. I tangle my fingers through her hair, nothing. Just warm, soft skin under my rough palms and her smooth, silky strands falling through my fingertips.
Her thighs squeeze tighter around my hips, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts against my throat.
Fuck, the friction.
The feel of her wiggling as she’s pressed flush againstmy cock, which, is now getting harder by the goddamn second.
She shifts slightly—trying to balance herself—and her center grinds against the thick, aching length straining against my jeans. My jaw tightens so hard it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack.
Fuck me. I’m gonna die right here in this field.
Her chest heaves against mine, her lips parted, her pupils blown from the adrenaline. Her thighs flex again, grinding herself against me just enough to make my head drop back with a guttural curse.
“You sure it’s gone, cowboy?” She whispers, breathless, and so fucking innocent it makes my cock ache.
I lower her gently, my hands still gripping her waist like I’m not ready to let go—because I’m not. Her chest brushes mine, rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, and fuck if that bow on top of her head doesn’t make her look like trouble wrapped in temptation.
“There’s, uh...” I clear my throat. “There’s no spider, you’re good.”
She lets out a long breath. “Oh, thank god. I thought I died for a second.”
I nod once, backing away. “Yeah,” I mutter, “no spider.”
The driveto Tractor Supply is a hell of a lot quieter than I expected. I figured after the shitshow in the pasture, she’d bounce right back into her chaotic little mood of hers. I thought for sure she’d crank up that EDM shit she loves, maybe sing too loud to piss me off.
Instead, she’s dead silent, curled up against the door, as she scrolls on her phone absently across the screen without really reading anything.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, stealing glances at her every few seconds, trying to piece together what’s going on in that pretty little head of hers. She’s probably still chewing on that brutal call with her old man.
Fuck, I’m still pissed about it and I don’t even know what he said to her. Her body language alone, the way she tensed, made me want to kill any motherfucker who has ever made her feel that way.
