Hitched(31)

“I usually have the goats milked by seven-thirty and out in the pasture no later than eight.” But my traitorous body is already relaxing against him.

He just feels so good. So right.

But he isn’t right for you, and you’re not right for him, and if you stay for snuggles you’ll definitely be giving him the wrong impression. So get up, weakling. Loser. Beta alpaca. Fork in the spoon sandwich. You’re lazier than George Cooney waiting on the couch for Cassie to hand him the popcorn bowl when it is literally five inches from his greedy little paw.

Finally the nagging voice in my head gets to be too much and I swing my legs to the floor with a sigh. “I really should get to the barn. I forgot I have to bottle feed a few of the babies today so they’ll be ready to come with me to goat yoga in the square.”

“Goat yoga?” Blake arches a brow and his lips curve up on one side, drawing my attention to his sexy morning stubble.

Damn, the man looks good with a little scruff.

And a tight white undershirt hugging his muscled biceps.

And a sexy case of bed head.

I drag my gaze away from him as I rake a hand through my own crazy hair, which I’m sure looks much less deliciously rumpled. “Yeah. Goat yoga. The babies climb over everyone while they’re doing the poses. Star, the new yoga teacher, says it’s a big thing these days. We had twenty-five people sign up for the demo class today. If all goes well, we’ll probably start doing it once a week through the spring and summer.”

“You need help getting them fed and loaded?” He sits up, but keeps the covers puddled around his waist, making me think a certain something hasn’t calmed down yet. Which makes me start thinking about how perfect that certain something is, and how I’ve never come as hard or often as I did on our first wedding night, the one we both denied ever happened so we could get an annulment.

But it did happen.

And I’ve spent the past four years replaying highlights from that night in my head when I’m alone in the dark. Even though I know I shouldn’t.

But nothing else gets me there. Even the few times I’ve slept with other men, sometimes I’ve found my thoughts drifting…

Shameless hussy, the inner voice pipes up, but her voice is softer now, so quiet it would be easy to ignore.

Which means it’s time to get away from Blake. ASAP.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it,” I say, heading for the bedroom. “I’m used to doing it all on my own.”

“Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be easier with two,” he calls after me. “Maybe even more fun.”

Oh, it would absolutely be more fun. But the “it” I’m thinking about has nothing to do with milking goats or feeding animals.

If only it hadn’t been so long since I’d been with someone. If only Blake’s touch didn’t set me on fire. If only this house were five times bigger so I could put some distance between us, and wouldn’t end up bumping hips with him every day as we move about my tiny kitchen. Because even that is enough to make my knees weak and my willpower start to lose its grip on the edge of the cliff.

“You take cream, right?” Blake is standing by the fridge when I breeze into the kitchen after getting dressed in yoga pants and a tank top and jacket combo that will take me from the cool morning into the warm spring afternoon.

He’s wearing a pair of brown Carhartt work pants that seriously do it for me, and that same white undershirt that’s going to be starring in my fantasies later on. The nutty smell of coffee fills the air and what looks like a breakfast sandwich is wrapped in foil and sitting beside my cell phone, which is beside the French press, which is beside— “Aaah!”

He glances at Dildo Shaggins and grins. “Oh. Sorry. Forgot he was there. You want me to move him?”

“No.” I start to laugh, remembering bingo last night. “I like him. He’s…happy.”

Blake snort-laughs. “Clearly. He must like his new home.”

“Or he thinks he’s getting breakfast too.”

“Never feed your dildo before midnight. It’s a rule.”

He lifts the cream.

I nod, and he adds a dollop to a to-go mug while I giggle at the cheesy eighties movie reference.

“Thank you.” I tap the warm, foil-wrapped treat on the counter. “For me?”

“Yeah, egg and cheese on a toasted bagel. That good?”

“That’s lovely. Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” he says, grinning. “I owe you for meatloaf night. Figured I could cook supper later too. If you don’t mind something meaty on the grill or veggie pasta. That’s about the extent of my culinary repertoire.”

“That’s a perfect repertoire. I’ll pick up something from the butcher shop on my way home from yoga.”

“Sweet.” He holds out the to-go mug. “I’ll be back around four or five. I’ve got to grab a few more things from my place and then do some work in the vineyard.”

“Okay.” I take the mug, feeling strangely torn.

“It’s just supper, Hope,” Blake says, reading me better than I’m reading myself. “Nothing to stress out about. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be good to each other, right?”

Oh, I want to be good to him, I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in longer than I can remember, but unfortunately my libido’s idea of “good” and what’s best for Blake aren’t anywhere close to the same page.