Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I narrow my eyes. “What if your porch collapses and kills five dogs?”
“Since I don’t have dogs, I didn’t include that one.”
“Fine, but if I find a stuffed opossum in your bedroom, you’re gonna wear that label with pride.”
“Shut up and put that lubed hand to work.”
“Ugh.” I shift toward the cow’s rear and fortify my resolve. I’ll do this because he gave me oatmeal and a place to sleep, but that’s not why I’m here. “Tell me about those men I named last night.”
“Levi Tibbs attacked us six years ago. You already know what he did to Conor.”
“Where is he now?”
“You’ll have to ask his parole officer.” He steps behind me and guides my gloved arm. “When you go in, you’ll feel the reproductive tract through the rectal lining. You’re looking for the cervix. It feels like a turkey neck.”
Not exactly helpful, since I’ve never touched a turkey neck. “What about the other men? How do you know them?”
“I didn’t say I did.”
“You’re hedging.”
“You’re stalling.” His breath caresses my ear, his broad chest like a branding iron against my back.
I let him move my hand closer to the cow’s poor butt, and my mind takes a disturbing detour. “Please tell me you’re not into fisting.”
“Haven’t tried it, but if that’s your thing, we can discuss it.”
“Nope. Forget I asked.” I glance around the barn, finding nothing related to impregnating a cow. “Don’t we need a turkey baster with semen or whatever?”
“We use a semen gun, and we’re not ready for that. You need to practice.”
Why do I get the feeling this is another test to see what I’m made of?
I lift her tail with my glove-free hand and wince. “What if she poops while I’m in there?”
“It happens.”
“Oh God.” With a groan, I extend my hand the final few inches.
“Stop!” Conor shouts from the doorway.
I yank my arm back, pulse spiking. Did I do something wrong? I haven’t even made contact yet.
She storms toward us, takes off her hat, and whacks Jarret over the head with it, knocking his Stetson to the ground. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He backs up, hands in the air and laughing his ass off.
“That’s a first-calf heifer.” Conor points at the cow, glancing between us.
“I don’t know what that means.” I glare at Jarret.
“It means she’s already pregnant.” She gives him another smack with her hat.
“I was going to stop her.” He rubs a hand over his smirking mouth. “I just wanted to see how far she’d go.”
I guess the joke’s on me. I meant what I said, though. I’m not a sensitive person. What he doesn’t know is I’m a firm believer in retaliation.
As Conor gives him a good ass chewing, I calmly step away and search the dirt floor. When I spot a fresh, wet mound of cow shit, I scoop it up in my gloved hand, hold it behind me, and casually walk over to him.
His gaze slides from Conor to me. A smile stretches my cheeks, and his eyes narrow. He starts to look down, but I’m already swinging.
Manure splatters his chest, followed by my palm. I rub it in from his neck to his stomach, feeling up all those hard ridges through the shirt.
He stares down at the filth with a half-groan, half-grin. “Shit.”
“Yep.” I give his jaw a sloppy pat, leaving behind a smudge.
Conor presses the back of her hand against her mouth, her green eyes alight with amusement.
At the sound of her chuckle, I head to the utility sink, discarding the glove in the trash along the way.
“There’s a calf—” Jake charges into the cowshed and slams to a stop, taking in the scene. “What did I miss?”
I stroll past him. “When your mom went to the bathroom, she forgot to flush your twin.”
“I feel like that insults me as much as it does him.”
“She’s a proponent of verbal offensiveness,” Jarret says, joining me at the sink.
I wash my hands, not looking at him.
Until he strips off his shirt.
He wets a towel and runs it over his bare chest and neck, his biceps twitching and pulsing with the movement. No man should have a body like that. It’s criminal.
Stacks of muscle form a rippling terrace for water to travel as he squeezes the rag against his pecs. His sun-kissed skin is hairless perfection, his physique a flexing, breathing trove of strength and masculinity. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“If you wanted me to take off my shirt, all you had to do was ask.” He tosses the towel in the sink and stares down at me with his hands resting on trim hips.
“Is that right?” I trail a finger along the corrugated wall of his abs, testing him with no intention of following through. “Take off the jeans.”
He grips my wrist, stopping my journey to his belt buckle. “Tonight.”