We then drove back to the second hoop house and unloaded the sheep, only to drive back to the fields to load up more.

It was slow work, and I could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down between my breasts. Roane’s T-shirt was soon soaked through like Bobby’s, with damp patches across his back and under his arms.

Perhaps it was the heat, or perhaps it was weeks of denying myself, but my body was tingling and throbbing with need as I watched Roane at work. I found myself mesmerized by the beads of sweat that trickled down the back of his neck, and the way the muscles in his biceps flexed as he helped Bobby fix the ramp to the truck.

The veins in his forearms held particular appeal.

I was in a state.

Slick with sweat and need, throbbing deep in my core.

When we got back to the hoop house and unloaded the last of the sheep, my thighs were damp, and my limbs were trembling. After counting the sheep, they realized there were three not accounted for, so Bobby took off to find the strays that had wandered away from the larger flocks.

Roane, completely unaware of how he was affecting me, cursed under his breath once the sheep were behind the pens, and whipped off the T-shirt that was sticking to every inch of his torso.

My jaw hit the floor as he strode past me, oblivious, and bent toward an old-fashioned water pump that I hadn’t even noticed situated by the side of the house. He ducked his head under it, yanking on the pump handle, the movement making his muscles known.

When he stood, he flicked his head, water flying off the ends of his unruly thick hair.

I think I might have moaned.

It was like watching Darcy coming out of that pond or Poldark cutting the fields with his scythe.

Was I drooling? I felt like I might be drooling.

Roane bent down under the metal channel beneath the pump, pulled out a water bowl, and began to fill it. Shadow was already at his side, waiting for the offering, and eagerly bent to the bowl when Roane put it down for him.

When Roane straightened, he looked toward the hoop house, his brow furrowed as if he was contemplating something.

And I ogled.

He wasn’t roped and ripped the way a man who had time for visits to the gym might have been. No, he was something better. Although broad shouldered, Roane was lean and muscular from daily physical activity on the farm. Plus, he wasn’t waxed to an inch of his life. There was a fine sprinkling of hair over his chest, and he had a happy trail.

I hummed under my breath.

He was sexy and strong without making me feel bad about my own lack of gym visits.

Roane was what Greer called “naturally manlicious.”

A deep tug low in my belly made me bite my lip to stop a moan, and despite the heat, I felt a familiar tightening in my breasts.

Then he looked at me.

Roane’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared at whatever he saw in my expression. His face darkened with heat, and I hungrily watched a droplet of water take a path down the center of his chest, stomach, and then disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.

“Oh, screw it.” I ran.

Actually ran.

I threw myself into his arms with the intention of locking our lips together.

Unfortunately, Roane wasn’t expecting my assault, and the water from the pump had turned the dirt under his feet soft and slippery.

As his arms closed around me, the impact of my body forced his back and his feet out from under him.

Roane landed on the ground with a pained groan, the impact made all the worse because the weight of my body flattened him.

“Oh my God.” I scrambled on top of him, my hands moving off his chest to brace on either side of his head. His handsome face was strained as he blinked up at me, apparently disoriented. “Are you okay?”

After a second of humiliating silence, Roane’s hands suddenly tightened on my waist and he rolled, pushing me to the ground. The water from the pump seeped into my tank top, but I couldn’t care less. Roane Robson was braced over me, half-naked, his gaze hot and searching. “Are we about to have sex?” he asked bluntly.

The question set my heart to racing.

“Yes,” I whispered.

His grin was immediate and oh so wicked. “Then, aye, angel. I’m fan-fucking-tastic.”

Seventeen

Roane jumped to his feet with more grace than a big guy like him should have been capable of and then bent down to haul me to my feet. Without a word, he grabbed me by the wrist and began marching us into the house. Shadow barked and followed us inside, and Roane paused momentarily to push the kitchen door open. “In, boy,” he directed, closing the door on Shadow, who gave another bark of disgruntlement.